


The Siege Perilous

by CarverTwain



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Camelot, Canon-Typical Violence, Druid Merlin, Druids, Gen, Merlin is called Emrys, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2018-12-07 20:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11631156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarverTwain/pseuds/CarverTwain
Summary: (Druid Merlin AU) Druids came for Hunith's son long ago. Years later, a man named Emrys and his apprentice are captured as Druids in Camelot. But Emrys strikes a deal with Uther: as long as the King allows Emrys to live as a political prisoner in the dungeons, the Druids will stay far away from Camelot. Uther agrees. Hated and feared, Emrys works to gain the trust of his jailers.





	1. The End of the Beginning

Prologue

* * *

Hunith had just straightened up from stoking the sputtering fire when she saw, through the doorway, that those men had returned. The cloth she had drawn across the open threshold to keep back the draft fluttered back and forth in the wind from outside. Every time it blew back and revealed the outside, the men were closer. And closer. Too close. She tightened her jaw. Felt the cold metal poker in her hand. Gripped it. Let it bite into her palm. Good.

She hurled it to the floor.

"Mama?" That soft voice from the bed.

It didn't help. Her body buzzed and her face was hot.

She stepped over the deep gouges that the poker left in the floor. Hunith touched the small body in the bed, under as many blankets as she could give him. "Sleep, baby. I'm going out, only for a bit." And she marched through the veil in the doorway.

Came back. Picked up the poker. Then marched out again.

The men had stopped at where the worn dirt path led up to her home. It was only a few steps away from her doorstep. But too close. Hunith shook the poker at the three men, whose robes were green and gray and reached the ground. Too many times had she seen their green cloth. Too many times had the other villagers seen them talking to Hunith. Too close. She hoped the poker was still hot from the fire.

"Leave. Please." Were all the words she could manage.

"We want to help him." The man in the middle spoke. He had no beard and his curly hair, once a dark brown, was greying at the roots.

"Please." Hunith's hand shook with the weight of the poker.

The man to the left stepped forward. "He may die-"

"No." Hunith struck the ground before his feet, leaving a deep gash in the dirt. "Too close… You're too close."

Their faces became drawn and wrinkled, each frowning in their own way.

"The others…the others in the village have been talking." Hunith looked out into the dusky street. No one was in sight. But still. Too close. "They already know he's…odd. If you keep coming. I don't know-…" Her voice was cracking and she took a breath, steadying her quivering resolve. "They'll send people to take him away. You can't keep coming here."

"Your son, he has gifts-"

"I don't care!"

Her voice echoed. Too loud. Hunith took another deep breath and lowered the poker.

"I don't care." She shook her head and whispered. "No one can know."

"We want to protect him too." The silvering-haired man spoke again. He seemed like the leader. "He is in danger here, in a small village. But with us…" It looked like he tried to smile at her, but he was failing. "With us he will have guidance, a community of those like him."

"And let my son go. Let him disappear from my arms, like he never existed?" Hunith wiped her nose. "He's a boy. He can't be without his mother. Who'll…who'll love 'im?"

The man on the right leaned forward, hands out, pleading. He was ginger-bearded, but young. "At least let us help him. If he dies, your love is wasted besides."

Hunith felt her words come out in a hiss. "Don't you say that." She raised the poker again. "Don't you say that again or I swear to you, I am a gentle woman, but I won't hesitate to strike you down."

How dare he tell me how to love my son. How dare he think he knows what it is to have that boy's hand in yours, or his blue eyes looking up at you, or his stupid little laugh he does when he knows he's done something bad.

Her chest hurt just thinking about it. Something inside hurt.

Maybe a minute or so passed before she stood back to let them pass into the house. "Help him, please. But I can't promise- He's my boy. I just can't." Hunith swallowed back a sob, hoping she wouldn't regret this. Hoping that the other villagers, who already looked at her and her bastard son with disgust, wouldn't know that she let these men in her house, these druids, as folks called them.

My small boy and I could be run out of the village. Or worse.

The three druids passed silently before her, entering the small home. The middle druid, the leader, stopped beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. "My lady…"

"Hunith."

"Hunith." He spoke her name gently. "I am Iseldir, and I swear to you, I will save your son."

Hunith wiped her eyes with her apron and took a deep breath, her sigh quavering as she let it out again. "Why do you care so much for him?"

"His gifts…" Iseldir trailed off for a moment then motioned for Hunith to go inside the house. He followed her. "We look for those kinds of gifts all over this land, and we take those that have them in, protect them, teach them. They are important. And your son, he is a very important boy."

"Yes." Hunith sniffed. "He is."

Back inside her home, it was much dimmer than outside under the gray blanket of clouds that hung over the land. Hunith broke away from the druids and went back to the fire, stabbing at it with her poker. But she didn't set the piece of metal down. No. She felt like it was a part of her at this point. An extension of my arm. She stood by the fire and watched.

The three men crowded around her son's small body. Touching his forehead. Gripping his wrist. Muttering to each other.

Should I have called the healer down the street again? He had said to keep him warm and to wait. But it had been days and none of the herbs had worked. And there were no bright blue eyes for her or wide smiles that stretched from ear to ear. The ears that stuck out so perfectly for her to grab onto when he nicked too many sweet cakes. Gods, why do I keep thinking like this? She had to wipe her eyes again on her apron.

The ginger-bearded man turned back to her. "How long has he had this fever?"

"A few days." Hunith cleared her throat. "He's been mostly asleep for two whole days, and nights. This is the third. In and out a few times…"

They became silent again. Hunched over her sick boy. Just between their bodies, Hunith could see the pale drawn face of her son, eyes closed and sunken deep into his delicate face. His cheekbones stood out sharply, shining with sweat. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead. My poor boy. My poor, poor boy.

"We cannot heal him." The other man with the shaved head, the one without the beard or the silvering hair, spoke. He turned around. "He is too far gone. We don't have the supplies with us."

"But-"

"Back at our camp, " Iseldir broke in and stepped forward to Hunith. "A day's travel from here, we have what we need to save him there. He will not last much longer."

"I-" Hunith tried again.

The ginger-bearded man still crouched by the boy's small body, holding that thin wrist. "He's close…we have to leave now, if he is to have a chance."

"Hunith." Iseldir took her hand. "Let us save him. You said it too, he is important."

Hunith closed her eyes, lips quivering. My boy. My sweet, sweet boy. To save him was to send him away. And to send him away from her, from her arms, from her love, was to save him. Was there no other way? I want him here. I want him here with me. Was that too selfish? Would he be better off away from my love? Who would he become if he were to grow and live here, always afraid, always hiding? She could not let him live like that.

"Take him." She whispered. "Please." Her whole body felt cold. "Teach him. Let him grow up somewhere where he won't have to hide."

Iseldir took her hands again and pressed them to his lips. "Hunith, we are going to save your son, and he will grow up to be a great man. The greatest to ever live."

Hunith watched as the young, ginger-haired man scooped up her son. The boy was limp and pale in his large arms. "Please, just let him live."

"He will." Iseldir bowed. "What is his name?"

Hunith dropped the poker on the floor. "M-merlin,… his name is Merlin."

* * *

Chapter 1: The End of the Beginning

* * *

Mordred looked up at his Master and smiled, holding tight to the larger hand and swinging it back and forth as they walked. He squinted in the bright sun, but the face of his Master was clear. He was a fairly tall man, with dark hair and pale skin, long limbs and a kind smile. Kind of like Mordred himself. But Mordred did not tell anyone this. And he definitely did not tell anyone that he sometimes pretended his Master was his father. It made sense to him though, even if his Master was too young to have a son Mordred's age. But they looked so alike. And they both had the same talents. His Master had even told him that they tied their knots the same way when they were pitching the lean-to the other night. He had grinned all that night and felt like he would burst from happiness. He was so proud. So it made sense to pretend that his Master was his father. It made sense.

It was better than trying to remember the fuzzy memories of his real father that faded away each time Mordred tried to remember them. Like trying to catch smoke. It was much nicer to pretend his father was here and was his Master. He was so lucky to have Emrys as his Master. Emrys was younger than all the other Elders, but he was the smartest and best of them all. At least, that's how it seemed. Everyone asked him for advice. And when they met new people, they would bow a little to his Master. Mordred was very proud of this.

It was too bad that the people of this city did not know how important his Master was, Mordred thought, as they passed through the crowds of the marketplace. But it would be dangerous here. That's what they had said before this journey. It will be dangerous. But so far, Mordred had seen no danger. None at all. They had entered Camelot this morning and still nothing had come of it. They spent the day gathering supplies and there was one more thing to find before they left and returned to the camp. His Master was looking for it now. There was someone they had to meet. Mordred watched his Master as he peered over the crowds, searching.

His Master stopped for a moment, then began walking very quickly. Mordred was soon pulled behind his Master through the crowds by his hand. He followed as best as he could, tripping a little as he went. Mordred went down. The cobblestones of the street were warm from the sunlight. His hand was scraped.

"Are you okay?"

Mordred looked up into the face of his Master. "I'm sorry, I fell." He took the hand that was held out to him.

"You're sorry?" His Master pulled Mordred to his feet and dusted off his clothes. "I'm the clot-pole that dropped you, I should be saying sorry." And his Master smiled down on him. "I'll be more careful next time, I promise."

Mordred nodded. It was still probably his own fault. He hadn't been looking at where he was stepping anyway.

"Now, we're going to get one more thing and then we are leaving." His Master squeezed his hand. "We must be quick. Are you ready?" He crouched and looked into Mordred's face, blue eyes bright with the sunlight falling on them. He smiled again at Mordred.

Mordred nodded again. He said nothing. The others had told him to obey without question and that he must only speak when spoken to. But he did not know why they should be quick. He knew that Camelot was dangerous. But it did not seem so. It was bright and sunny and all the people in the market were smiling and happy. What was the danger exactly?

"Good." His Master stood again and began leading Mordred by the hand through the market crowds.

They soon stopped at a stall and his Master began to talk to the man there. A couple minutes passed. Mordred watched people pass by and swung his Master's hand back and forth as he waited. There was a juggler across the way and other children watching him. Mordred giggled. The juggler dropped a ball on his own head. It bounced off, fell into the juggler's own hand again. And he went back to juggling. All the other children laughed too. Maybe he could go over there? His Master knew how to juggle, maybe he wouldn't mind-

Then something slid out of place. Mordred froze. Something was wrong. He felt his body go cold, even though he was standing there in the bright sunshine. His Master had gone stiff beside him and Mordred could tell that something was wrong, very wrong. And then, his Master ran. Mordred tried to keep up. He tried to watch his feet. Shouts. Shouts all around! What was happening?

Mordred was dragged in and out of the crowd. Faces flashed by. The sun above made him squint. Where were they going?

He could hear his Master panting as they ran.

Mordred looked back. He saw the soldiers. He saw their shiny armor. He saw their swords. Mordred tried to run faster.

Was this the danger?

His Master ducked behind some stalls, and around others, Mordred kept stumbling and almost falling but his Master kept him up. Would they get out of Camelot? He saw the gateway they had come through this morning. It was blocked by soldiers.

His Master pulled him to the right. They ran under an archway. More shouting. More running feet. Mordred's heart was about to burst from his chest. His lungs burned. His legs ached.

And then, from above, a cry. Mordred looked up. His Master stuttered to a stop. A soldier leapt from a ledge up high, sword raised, the blade catching the sun as he flew down towards them. Mordred froze. He could not move. He could not was pushed.

Moments later, he was on the ground, tasting dust. Scraped hands stung. He shook his head and his Master stumbled to his feet too, clutching his arm and swaying. He was standing between the soldier and Mordred. The soldier advanced. His Master, without looking, reached behind him and towards Mordred. Mordred grasped his Master's hand again. It was slick. Slippery. There was a tang in the air. Mordred looked down.

He felt his Master's magic thrum; the air vibrated and there was a brief pressure on Mordred's chest. It was a like a rumble of thunder, but without the sound. He could feel it. Sense it.

His Master's hand was covered in blood. Mordred tried to let go but his Master held him tightly. He twisted in his Master's grip. The blood. Wrenched. Slick and wet. The hand crushed his. The soldier screamed.

Mordred looked up and saw the man fly a distance and hit an opposite wall. Hit it hard. Crumpled to the ground and did not move. And they ran again. They were out of the marketplace now. No more stalls. No more happy people. Mordred did not know where they were.

His Master pulled him into a dim alley between two stone walls, covered by a few crates that sat piled there, and crouched down, pulling Mordred down beside him. And his Master watched, panting softly, staring out from behind the crates. He watched. Mordred watched his Master. They did not see any soldiers yet. No soldiers had seen them yet. Not yet.

"Are we safe?" Mordred whispered.

His Master leaned on the crates and sighed. "It's going to be okay, Mordred." He smiled at the apprentice. "We'll get out of here, I promise."

Mordred looked down at their hands. They had become tacky with his Master's blood, almost stuck together. The dried blood stained both of their hands now. And his Master did not let go of Mordred's hand. Not once.

* * *

Morgana had her cup to her lips when she felt a cry echo throughout her body, desperation and a plea flooded her senses. She had to help. She slammed the cup on the table. Her watered-down wine flew, splashed on her hands and the front of her gown. She had to help.

"My lady?!"

Gwen was beside her and mopping up the spilled wine in a moment, taking her hands, asking if she was well.

No, she was not well. Someone was scared and alone and needed help. Someone nearby. She tried to say this. But the words, the words did not make sense.

"Gwen…I need to help."

Gwen put a hand to her elbow, pushing her to a chair. "My lady, sit down, you are not well."

Morgana would not be budged. She stood there, like a rock. "No, Gwen." She felt another coming, another wave of fear. "Someone…"

_Help us, please!_

Morgana ran to her door. She could feel Gwen grabbing at her arm as she went but she shook it off.

"My lady!" Her maid exclaimed.

Morgana pulled open her heavy door and stepped out. "I'll be back, Gwen, wait here." She looked around the corridor. "I need to…"

And other wave broke over her.

_Help!_

Morgana did not know where to go, but something pulled her towards the outside, towards the courtyard. She heard Gwen following her. No matter. It did not matter. She had to find…it. Someone needed help and it was driving her mad. That fear, that panic. Morgana had to do something. Anything. She stepped outside, from the cool castle corridors to the sharp sunshine. Her eyes adjusted. The courtyard was full of activity. Servants and craftsmen walked here and there. Nothing looked out of place. No one seemed to be in any danger.

_Please! You have to help us!_

Morgana's eyes snapped to a small alley across the courtyard, half covered by crates. Someone stood there. Maybe. She could not quite make it out. The crates were in the way. Morgana descended down the castle steps and shrugged off her frightened maid again.

"My lady, please come back inside."

"Just a moment, Gwen, just a moment." Morgana kept her eyes fixed on that alley and walked to the side to get a better view.

Two small figures crouched there behind the crates, clad in dull green, and watching her. Watching her just as she watched them. Morgana could not take her eyes off them.

_Help us._

Morgana reached back and snatched up her maid's hand. Gwen gasped but gripped Morgana's hand too. "Gwen." Morgana spoke softly.

"Yes, my lady?"

They had not shouted. "There are two…people over there? Yes?" There had been no sound, but somehow Morgana had heard them. Somehow.

Gwen moved to stand beside Morgana and was silent for a moment before speaking again. "Yes, my lady. I see them. "

Morgana saw a few soldiers enter the courtyard. They were talking to the servants and other villagers. Searching the courtyard. Morgana looked back to the two figures crouched behind the crates. They were both dark-haired and small. That was all she could make out so far. Why were they-

_They're searching for us._

Morgana frowned. She did not know how to reply, but she felt it. She had to try. She closed her eyes and sent a thought towards them.  _Why are they after you?_

 _They're going to kill us._ Terrified. They were terrified. She could almost feel the voice shaking.

Morgana's eyes snapped open again and saw the guards' progress across the courtyard. They were getting dangerously close to the hiding place. Too close. Morgana picked up a corner of her skirt and walked down the rest of the castle steps, Gwen's hand still firmly in her own.

"Come, Gwen." She murmured. "Only for a moment."

"I don't understand what's going on, my lady." They were crossing the courtyard now. Gwen was walking with small, stiff steps. "You're scaring me." Gwen was trying to stop her.

"I think…" Morgana spoke slowly, trying to figure out what to say. She could scarcely understand it herself. But someone had called to her. Someone that needed help. And she couldn't leave it be or else it would drive her mad. "I think that these people are in trouble. I want to help them. Gwen…" Morgana stopped in the middle of the courtyard, servants and other commoners were passing them by on all sides, and she turned to her maid. Morgana took Gwen's other hand. "Gwen, trust me, please."

"Of course, my lady." Gwen lowered her eyes to the cobblestones.

They finished crossing the courtyard, Morgana willing the guards to stay away from that little alleyway. They did, thankfully. She could feel Gwen holding her breath the entire time, squeezing Morgana's hand hard enough to hurt, but she did not mind. And when Morgana finally reached that little hiding place, she could properly see who had called for help. Called her for help.

A young boy and a young man. The young boy was crouching on the ground, looking up at her with big blue eyes, staring through a mess of dark hair that lay plastered to his forehead. He was panting. Morgana's eyes switched to the young man. He sat on the ground next to the boy, legs drawn to his chest and leaning back on the stone wall. He was watching Morgana too. He was holding the boy's hand. There was blood there. Blood. Morgana took a step back. Blood stained the sleeve of the young man's tunic and had run down his arm to stain both their hands. Some of it was dried, some still wet. Morgana couldn't breathe. What could she do? What should she do? Her mind went blank.

"My lady."

Morgana could not tear her eyes away from the wound.

"My lady." Gwen gripped her shoulder. "What should we do?"

Morgana started and looked to her maid. "What?" She struggled to get her thoughts moving again. The boys. Yes, the boys here. Dark haired and looking up at her. "Yes." Morgana took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, yes."

They needed to move, now. But perhaps the guards would recognize them. Probably. But only by their clothes. If Morgana could hide their clothes with something she could sneak them somewhere safer. Those cloaks. Morgana eyed the gray-green cloaks, both of them. They would surely stand out if she saw two people wearing them, side-by-side. Eliminate the cloaks and disguise the boys. Then move them to a safer place. What would be safer? Her chambers sprang first into her mind, of course it did. But was it smart? She didn't know. But she didn't have time for this. No one had time for this. Morgana had to act, now!

"Gwen, return to my chambers and find the longest hooded cloak you can. Bring it back here. Will you do that for me?" Morgana put a hand on top of her maid's hand, which was still resting on her shoulder. "Please?"

"Yes, my lady." And in a moment, Gwen was gone, across the courtyard, and hurrying up the steps.

Morgana turned back to the two boys in dull green. "I'm going to help you. Don't worry."

The young boy, who was maybe nine or ten years old nodded. The young man, who seemed closer to eighteen years, just let his head rest on the stone wall behind him, eyes half-closed and very pale. Morgana looked to the wound in the young man's arm again and felt her heart jolt. However many times she looked at it, that quickening of her heart always happened. That wound needed care, but they had to wait until they were safe. They had to wait just a little while longer.

Minutes passed. Morgana kept looking from the two boys by her side and then to the castle steps again. Finally, Gwen appeared. Finally!. She carried a bundle and was walking as quickly as she could. Morgana felt a rush of love for the maid. How brave and how kind she was, to put up Morgana's strange moods and help her unquestioningly.

"It's the best I could find." Gwen spoke only when she was close beside Morgana, her breath hitting Morgana's cheek as she spoke.

Morgana unwrapped the, sadly, dark green cloak. It was velvet and heavy and had always dragged on the ground as she walked. It was in all ways perfect except for the fact that it was green and might alert the guards. Morgana glanced up at Gwen and smiled. No matter. They would make do. Morgana turned to the two dark-haired boys.

"Take off your cloaks, hurry!" She whispered. The guards were mostly gone from the courtyard now, but some were posted at the entrances. She had to be careful. They all had to be very careful and not attract too much attention.

The boy did as he was told and let his cloak fall to the ground. The young man slowly worked on the clasp of his own cloak, fingers slipping. Morgana crouched down and reached over and undid the clasp in a second. She gently pushed the cloak off the young man's shoulders as he looked up and met her eyes. He was tired. He was hurt. Morgana swallowed hard. She would be able to help him once they were hidden and safe. They had to do that first. She held the cloak out to the young man.

"You must put this on." He took it from her, hand brushing her hand, it was cool and clammy. Morgana continued, "Draw it about your body with the hood up and Gwen will walk with you, holding your arm. It will look as though she is escorting me to my chambers after taking ill, or something like that." She shrugged.

The young man looked to the boy and then back to Morgana. His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the cloak, putting it on.

Morgana nodded. "I will bring him up after Gwen has taken you to my chambers. We're trying not to arouse suspicion, so I will wait a few minutes. I promise, I will take care of him." She tried to smile but found it difficult, it felt like a grimace instead.

The young man nodded too and sat up a little and his face went a few shades whiter. He swayed. Then stood. Put a hand to the wall, leaned on it, then finished pulling the cloak about his body. It completely covered him, from shoulder to foot.

"What am I to do, my lady?" Gwen asked.

Morgana reached and pulled the hood of the dark green cloak over the head of the young man. "Take him to my chambers, Gwen. If anyone asks, I felt faint in the sunlight and that I must lie down." She made sure the hood was pulled low enough to hide the man's face, then turned to Gwen. "I will be along shortly with the boy."

"My lady…" Gwen began but when their eyes met, Gwen quickly lowered hers. "I'm sorry."

"It will be fine." Morgana took the man's arm. He gasped. Morgana quickly let go. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" She murmured, then took the other arm, and gave it to Gwen to hold. "I am right behind you, Gwen."

The maid nodded and held the arm of the young man gently. They walked off into the courtyard. Morgana stood in front of the boy, who was standing now, and blocked him from the view of any passersby. He and Morgana watched Gwen and the cloaked imposter. They made it across the courtyard. And up the steps. They disappeared into the shadows of the castle. Good.

Morgana turned to the boy and smiled down at him. "We will follow them shortly. Do not worry." The boy kept staring at the castle and said nothing. "What's your name?" She asked. And she waited. He said nothing. Morgana bit her lip and sighed. It had probably been long enough now. Probably. She held out her hand to the young boy with the big blue eyes and dark hair. "Here. Let us go in as well."

He looked at her hand, then up at her, and reached out with his as well. It was covered in dried blood. Morgana did not recoil, though she wanted to. She took his little rust-colored hand. And together, they walked out of the shadows of that alley and into the sunlight of the castle courtyard. Morgana walked slowly, eyed those that passed by. No one seemed to be noticing them. She felt the tension in her chest slowly easing. The steps up to the castle were just ahead. Perfect. Wonderful. They were almost there-

"Milady!"

Morgana froze. She turned around and tried her best to smile. A guard approached her, helm on, so she could not recognize him.

"Do you need any help?" He nodded down at the boy.

"Oh." Morgana's mind raced. "No, we are just fine. I was…" Think, damn you, think! "I was escorting this boy to his mother." Good… good… "She's a servant in the kitchens and he was looking for her. So I was just…taking him to her. I know where she is." Morgana put a hand on the boy's head and rubbed his hair a little. "She makes the best meat pies."

"Oh, yeah." The guard nodded a little, hand on his sword. "I think I've had those, they've got the-"

"Yes!" Morgana agreed. Always agree. "Those. I absolutely love them."

"Best I've ever had." The guard reached out a gloved hand. "I can take him to his mum, don't worry yourself."

Morgana took a step back. "Oh, actually. She asked me to help him, to bring him to the kitchens. I- Well, I gave my word." She tried to laugh a little. "You know, the bonds between women."

"If you're sure." He shrugged and moved away a little, stepping back. "We have a few fugitives on the loose in the city. Be careful, milady."

Morgana turned back to the castle steps. "Thank you!" She called back, feeling as though she were drenched in sweat. Morgana and the boy both hurried up the steps and into the cool, dark corridors of the castle. "Almost there." She muttered. And they turned a few corners, found the spiral staircase, and then finally her own chambers. Morgana opened the door quickly and pulled the boy inside. Finally, safe. She sighed and turned around.

"My lady, help!" Gwen was on the floor, kneeling over the young man. He lay on the stone floor, still wearing the green velvet cloak. He was very white and very still. He would not move.

* * *

Emrys opened his eyes and soon understood that he did not know where he was. But it was not the first time. Nor would it be the last. He took note of his body; weak and shaky, his wounded arm throbbed. His head hurt and swam and his thoughts fuzzed in and out, pulling him along with them, like he were caught in the waves of some dark sea. In and out. There were voices. A pressure on his back. Was he laying down? He could not tell. But it was not the first time.

Slowly, he became aware that he had opened his eyes. There was light. There was fine cloth. A stone wall. He still did not know where he was. He did not recognize what he was looking at. Where was Mordred?

Emrys sat up. Head spinning. Where was Mordred?

He opened his lips to say something but his voice caught. Throat dry.

And then Mordred was there beside him. Holding his hand. Looking into his face. Calling his name into the ether. Emrys could hear it well. Mordred was speaking directly into his thoughts. Asking him if he were well. Asking if he needed anything. Telling him something about nice ladies that helped them. Emrys barely heard any of it for it was all very fast and he was so sluggish right now. But Emrys felt that he would have wept for joy if he had the strength for it. Mordred was safe, that he knew. If anything had happened to his charge, Emrys would have never been able to forgive himself.

Emrys slowly wrapped his arms about the boy and hugged him. Mordred was safe.

Minutes passed, or hours, Emrys was not sure. But soon Mordred pulled away and Emrys noticed that he was lying on a pile of blankets, tucked into a small alcove with stone walls and a curtain. And that there were two ladies watching them, standing there. He tried to sit up a little, his wounded arm pulsed with pain when he moved it by accident. He winced.

"No, don't try to get up. Rest please." The well-dressed lady spoke. Who was she? Emrys thought a moment. She was the one who had brought Mordred to safety. Yes, that was it. The lady continued. "You are safe here. No harm will come to you, I swear it. I am the Lady Morgana and this is Gwen, my maid."

Emrys nodded and swallowed hard before he tried to speak again. His voice was raspy. "Thank you, for helping us."

The Lady Morgana smiled. Everyone was silent for a moment before she spoke again. "I asked the boy his name and what you are called, but he will not speak." And here she looked away, looked to the floor. "I could have sworn that I heard him speak earlier…"

Emrys cleared his throat. "His name is Mordred, I am called Emrys."

"Emrys." The lady smiled again. The maid behind her turned away and disappeared from the alcove. "And Mordred. Nice to meet you."

Good to know that pleasantries still took precedence even when fugitives were involved. Emrys felt himself smile too. "Nice to meet you too, my lady." Mordred squeezed his hand. "We were in Camelot gathering supplies when we were betrayed by a merchant that I thought I could trust."

"Betrayed?" The Lady Morgana pulled a chair nearer and sat in it. "I do not understand."

She would find out either way. It would be better for it to come from his mouth. Trust is important and she was kind enough to help them. Emrys took a breath and looked over Mordred. The boy sat beside him on the blankets, holding his hand, and staring at the patterns on the cloths. He had been through too much today. He had to get Mordred out of Camelot. He did not belong here.

Emrys sighed. "We are Druids, my Lady. It is a crime to enter Camelot and we did just that." He shrugged and felt that pain again. That's right… He looked down to his throbbing arm. He was wounded. He had forgotten.

The Lady Morgana opened her mouth to say something else but Emrys interrupted. "We must leave as soon as we can, my Lady. You have been too kind to us, and I am forever in your debt for protecting Mordred. But we cannot stay here."

The lady stood up. "Well, you cannot leave now. The guards are still looking for you. How are we to sneak you out when they are crawling down every corridor?"

That was to be expected. But staying here only increased the chances of them being found. Why would the guards not search this chamber? They would be found eventually. They had to do something.

"Besides, you are hurt. You must rest first. You keeled over not that long ago. You fainted right there!" The lady frowned hard at him and pointed at the floor.

Emrys knew he would have blushed if he were not so pale. He felt his ears redden slightly, however. "I did not faint."

"Then what was it?"

"I fell asleep…standing up."

The lady laughed.


	2. Hunith's Son

The Druid was asleep again, or it was something akin to sleep but not quite. It was a painful, restless, unkind sleep. He writhed slowly, dragging the blankets around the little nest in the alcove as the hours dragged by. Morgana sat nearby, keeping an eye on both of the Druids, a book open on her lap. But she had been reading the same few pages for the past few hours and had made no progress in the text. Afternoon had passed and evening was well on the way. The sound of the guards out in the courtyard, shouting and searching, had slowly died down until it was mostly silent. And yet, that silence made Morgana more uneasy. Would they choose to search the castle? What would she do if they did?

Morgana closed her book and looked to the alcove. The elder Druid still lay there. He shifted every so often, and from where she sat, Morgana could see that there was some kind of grimace in his features. He was still pale and sweaty. He was still asleep. He was not getting better. And Mordred had not left his side once since they had dragged the unconscious man to the alcove. The child sat close to his kinsman, holding tight to the pale hand that much larger than his own.

Emrys had looked to be about eighteen years of age when Morgana had first spotted him and the child in the little alley of the courtyard. He was tall with a long and lanky frame that did not seem too far away from boyhood, but only just past it. Almost a man. And in his features were prominent cheekbones and even more prominent ears. Those ears would have amused her greatly had she met him under different circumstances. And yet, despite his apparent age, he looked vulnerable and young as he lay there asleep and limp. He looked so young. He was still a boy.

Morgana supposed the feelings she was having were those motherly instincts that many visiting noble ladies had told her many, many times would come once she had a child. Morgana had laughed at them then. Or at least, behind their backs once they had turned to preach the wonders of motherhood to someone else. She hadn’t needed any of their advice. She barely felt in control of her own life that protecting and nurturing another seemed exhausting. It didn’t seem worth it. But there was something in her, slithering around in her gut, when she looked at that pale boy’s face. Something in her wanted to protect him from harm. She couldn’t stand this much longer, watching someone suffer and being completely useless.

Around sunset Gwen had to leave, saying something about chores for her father. The maid lit the fire, got the flames good and hot, then Morgana saw her to the door and closed and latched it against after the maid left. Gwen would also deliver a message to the King, saying that Morgana was feeling unwell and could not attend dinner with him.

Morgana stood there a moment by the door, leaning on it, listening. The castle was still except, every so often, the soft steps of a leather-shoed servant would tiptoe past. No clank and stomp of heavy guard boots. She walked back to the little alcove, hidden by her changing screen, and looked down at the two Druids. Both looked up at her.

“You’re awake.” Morgana smiled and turned. She took the cup of water she had waiting on the table and kneeled down close to them.

Mordred shuffled away from her, putting himself between Morgana and Emrys.

“Oh, it is okay. I’m sorry.” Morgana leaned back, giving them space. The small boy was just so skittish. He must have really been scared today. “I just have some water for you, if you want it?” She spoke to Emrys and held the cup out.

He stared at her a moment before reaching and taking the cup. “Thank you.” And when he had shifted, the blankets had fallen back to reveal his wound again. It had been bound up with a scrap of cloth from Gwen’s sewing supplies; it was soaked through with blood. But while he had slept, Morgana and Gwen had torn up a few old sheets and made some more appropriate bandages, to be used once he woke up. And he was awake. Emrys handed the cup back to Morgana and she set it on the floor.

“Is there something I can do for you? Something you need? Gwen and I, well, mostly Gwen, we-” Morgana stood and walked to the table and picked up a scrap of the makeshift bandage they had cobbled together, showing it to the Druids. “We made a bandage. I could rebind that wound and replace that rag, if you liked?”

Emrys eyed the bandage before nodding. “Yes, thank you.” And he started to sit up, groaning softly. He was having difficulty.

Morgana turned her eyes away, a little too embarrassed to stare at someone’s discomfort; she was sure he didn’t want an audience. So she busied herself with gathering up the long bandage, folding it neatly. When she turned about again, Emrys was sitting up and Mordred had moved away a little. She stepped forward and kneeled next to the older Druid, squeezing between him and the stone wall.

Emrys’ head rested on the stone wall behind him and his eyes were half-closed, but he watched her. Morgana began to untie the messy knot that held the makeshift covering in place. It was bloody. And slippery. She winced, digging her fingernails into the knot. Finally it came loose and she slowly pulled it away. The wound was ugly, and deep, but it no longer bled as freely as it had before, just oozing now. She began to unwrap the new bandage, leaving bloody fingerprints on it. Emrys was silent the entire time.

Before Morgana started with the new bandage she looked up at him. And he met her eyes. He smiled.

Morgana began working on the new bandage, but every way she wrapped it, it kept coming loose and falling off his arm. She sighed.

After several tries, Emrys cleared his throat and spoke. “Uh, could I?”

“What?” Morgana was concentrating hard on the bandage. It was almost right this time, if she just wrapped it this way- Damn! The whole thing came loose and settled on the blankets again. “Yes?” She looked up into his face.

“If you just, well, wrap it this way.” Emrys pointed from one spot on his arm, and then to another, indicating a direction. “Start there.”

Morgana nodded and did as he said.

“And then, if you, yes-.” He grunted softly as she pulled it tight over the weeping wound. “That’s right. Thank you.”

“Like this?” Morgana pulled the bandage in a criss-cross pattern.

“Perfect.”

She smiled at him and continued wrapping. “Keep doing this?”

“Exactly like that, yes.” A pause. “Thank you, my lady.”

Then they were silent for a time as Morgana, gently as she could, bound the wound. She finally spoke again. “There is no need for any of those my ladys. I do not need you to call me that.”

The task was almost done. Morgana almost fell silent again, but there was something that gnawed at the back of her mind. “But I do have a question, if you do not mind me asking?”

“Please do.”

Morgana glanced up from her work again. The Druid had his head back on the wall again. His eyes were closed. She took a breath and continued. She was curious. “I have heard that Druids are talented healers and I know that you are…” Morgana lowered her voice a little, nearly whispering. “Users of magic. And just, well, is there nothing you can do for your wound, no healing that you can do?”

“No.”

Mordred seemed to sit up straighter, leaning closer.

Morgana waited for more, but no other explanation came. Strange. She stopped her wrapping and looked up. Emrys was still resting his head back, eyes half-closed and staring past her. She now noticed a sheen of sweat on his forehead, sparkling dully in the light of the candles that Gwen had lit not long ago.

She started wrapping the limb again. He was trembling in her hands. “Nothing at all?” Morgana asked.

“No, I’ve lost too much blood and the wound’s become infected, or will soon…” His voice was soft. “I have no strength to heal myself, ironic, isn’t it?”

“I am sorry to pry. I did not know that was how it worked.” Morgana lowered her eyes.

“Well, that’s how it works for me.” He sighed.

The binding of the wound was finished now. Morgana managed to tie it up with a neat little knot. If her embroidery was evidence for her skills in knot-making, she was a master at it. “There.” She patted the bandaged arm gently. “All done.”

Emrys lifted his head and looked it over, raising an eyebrow. “Thank you, my lady- Oh,…sorry.”

“Morgana.” She smiled and corrected him. “Just Morgana.”

Emrys nodded. “Thank you, just Morgana.”

She laughed softly. That was not what she had meant.

He gave her a small smile and touched the bandage too, fingers brushing the cloth, and murmured. “It’s very well done.” He shifted a little, pushing a blanket off and sighing again. “We will leave soon, we cannot stay here much longer. I will heal myself once I’ve rested a little.”

Morgana stood slowly, noticing that one of her legs had gone quite numb. Ow. She rubbed the feeling back into it. “Well, you had better get to it.”

She looked Emrys over again as Mordred slid closer to the older Druid and took the injured hand in his own small one. The man was otherwise pale but his cheeks were flushed.

“You are safe here, I promise.” And she meant it. No one was going to harm these two gentle souls without having to go through her first. She sat down in her chair again and picked up her book. And by the flickering candlelight, she attempted to read a little more.

* * *

 

“My lady…”

Someone was shaking her shoulder gently.

“My lady!” The voice hissed.

Morgana leapt out of her chair. Gwen was there.

“Gwen.” Morgana sighed, pressing a hand to her chest. Her heart was racing.

Why was Gwen there? She should not be back yet. She had only left a quarter of an hour or so ago. Morgana looked around. The room was dim. The candles had burned low. Her book was on the floor. Why was her book on the floor? Had she dropped it?

Gwen bent and picked the book off the floor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. The chores for my father kept me late. I thought I should come make your bed.”

Morgana pulled back her hair and swallowed hard. She was shaking a little. “What is the time, Gwen? I think I was asleep.” Funny, she did not remember falling asleep.

Gwen was walking to the bed now, starting to straighten the sheets. “Near midnight, my lady, I think. I’m sorry I couldn’t-”

“No matter.” Morgana turned to the alcove. It was dim in the little corner and she could barely make out the two figures lying there. Morgana took one of the guttering candles and stepped closer. The yellow light sluggishly washed over the two Druids. Morgana saw that the young boy, Mordred, was sleeping soundly next to Emrys. He was cuddled up next to the young man. She turned her gaze to Emrys. He looked much the same. Pale, sweaty, shaking in his sleep. Morgana leaned down and put a hand to the young man’s forehead. He was burning with a fever. This was not good. This was terrible. What should she do? Morgana leaned closer and looked down to the bandaged arm since it lay above the blankets. Her sputtering candle, the base full of liquid wax, dripped onto the young man’s hand.

Morgana gasped and righted the candle, an apology on her lips. But he did not wake.

She waited.

The burning wax on his skin did not wake him. It would not.

“Gwen?” Morgana whispered softly, in fright. “Oh, Gwen!” Her lips grew numb and tingled and she knew that she had gone quite pale. This man might die in her chambers, where she slept every night, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Mordred’s eyes flickered open and he shifted next to the sick man. He started when he saw how close Morgana was.

The maid whispered from across the room. “Yes, my lady?”

Something had to be done and neither Morgana nor Gwen were healers. Gaius was the only person Morgana knew of that could possibly help in this situation, but she could not go to him. Morgana had promised to keep the Druids safe and Gaius was the King’s trusted physician. No, that way was closed to her. But Emrys was a healer, so if Morgana could just get him to wake, he may be able to tell her what to do. She was good at following instructions, well, when she wanted to anyway. She was a fast learner.

Morgana set the candle down, away from the blankets, plunging the little alcove behind her dressing screen into darkness again. She took hold of the young man’s uninjured arm. “Emrys.” She whispered.

Mordred sat up, very quickly.

Gwen had come over to the alcove by now. “Are you well?” She asked. Morgana ignored her.

“It is okay.” Morgana tried to calm the child, but he was now batting away her hands. “Mordred.” She sighed, and snatched one of the young boy’s thin wrists. “Mordred, it is me, Lady Morgana. I just want to wake Emrys. Can you help me?”

Mordred stopped fighting her and went very still. She could not see what he was doing. Morgana gripped Emrys’ arm again and shook him gently. After a minute or so of waiting the young man started awake, gasping. He fought for breath, struggling to sit up. Morgana could not see his distress, but she could hear it, and when she put a hand to his damp chest she could feel his heart racing.

“Emrys.” She whispered. “Emrys, you are very ill. Do you understand?”

“Mordred?” His voice was rough and weak.

“It is Morgana.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You are ill. You have a fever. Is there something I should do? Do you need some sort of medicine?”

“Morgana…” The Druid’s voice was weaker than before.

Morgana squeezed his shoulder, hard. “Please, don’t fall asleep. Please. Tell me what to do? Or does Mordred know how to help you?” She realized that she was patting his chest in the effort to keep him awake. She stopped.

Silence.

“Emrys?”

Shallow breaths and a slight shift. His clothes were damp with sweat, Morgana could feel it. “Gaius…does Gaius still serve the King?”

Morgana nodded, even though Emrys probably couldn’t see it. “Yes, yes, he does, but I can’t-”

“Tell him…that…he can help. Tell him that it’s…it’s Hunith’s son. He’ll know… he’ll know…”

Beneath her fingers, Morgana could feel the young man go very still. “Emrys?” She patted his chest again. “Emrys?”

Nothing.

* * *

 

It had been a late night preparing remedies for delivery the next morning and Gaius was glad when he finally tucked himself into bed, got the blankets just right, and closed his eyes. And that’s when there was a soft knock at his door. He frowned. Ignored it. Or least, he let himself believe he could ignore it. The knock continued. Oh, hell. He pulled himself from his heavenly bed and stomped over to the door of his chambers, not bothering to put a robe on over his nightgown. If someone was going to hassle him this late at night they had better be prepared to deal with the consequences, which included seeing him in his underclothes. That’ll teach them.

Gaius yanked the door open. “This had better be impor-”

“Gaius, please!”

And suddenly Morgana was before him, taking his hand, and speaking so fast that it sounded rather like a different language. What was she going on about? It certainly had her riled up.

Gaius placed a hand on her small shoulder. “Are you ill, my lady?” He asked. “Another nightmare?”

“No, not at all.” She looked to be on the brink of sobbing.

He took the hand that had grabbed his and held it in his own. “What do you need? Come in, sit down, tell me about it.” Gaius tried desperately to wake up enough to be coherent, stifling a yawn. It was difficult.

“No, no, there isn’t much time.” Morgana pulled him halfway out of the door. “Someone needs medicine. He’s sick, very sick, and I don’t know how to help him.”

Well, if there wasn’t much time, then Gaius supposed he didn’t need all of the details, just the important ones. He turned about and headed to his work table. “Sick? How?”

“A fever.” She sounded extremely distressed. It must be serious. “He said it may be an infection.”

“An infection of what?” He was grabbing some chamomile. They would need water. A lot of water. And a pot to boil it in.

“A-a wound…it’s a cut on his arm. He lost a lot of blood…” She trailed off softly.

Gaius grabbed his jar of honey from the castle hives and picked out the freshest yarrow among what he had hung from his ceiling a few days ago. It would do nicely. A wooden mortar and pestle followed; the granite one was much to heavy. And he selected a few yards of bandages he had made and set aside a while ago. Thankfully he had not had to use so much of it this season, yet. Then he spun about, arms full and eyeing his chambers for a bag to toss it all into. “Who is this, Morgana?” He spotted his leather satchel from across the room and strode over to it, knees joints clicking as he went. He would need some comfrey for that later…

“He said, uh…”

Gaius finished dumping everything into his bag and swung it over his shoulder. “Tell me as we walk. Show me the way. Oh- wait!” He jogged back, grabbed his robe, and slid it on. That would have been embarrassing, wandering about the castle in his nightgown.

The lady nodded, looking very much like the girl Gaius had gotten used to treating for scraped knees and bruises, but that was before she became a woman and a lady of the court. She was still a young girl in his eyes though, no matter how many titles they heaped on her.

Gaius followed Morgana through the castle. After a few moments, as they passed from one patch of torchlight to another, she spoke again, whispering now. “It is a young man. He came to me for help. His name, well…” She trailed off again. Something was bothering the usually blunt and fearless Morgana. Gaius could count on one hand the number of times that he had seen Lady Morgana so shaken. Only her night terrors could frighten her this much.

“Yes?” He prompted her.

And it was then that he found himself in front of Morgana’s chambers. But, that didn’t make sense. Was it not a village boy, or a servant, or even a nobleman of which she was speaking? So why wasn’t Lady Morgana leading him out to the Lower Town? Or to somewhere else in the castle? Perhaps she had to get something from her chambers first, he reasoned.

She did not open the door, instead standing in-between Gaius and the door to her chambers. “He told me, well, he said that-” She could not seem to spit it out. “Gaius, he said that he was ‘Hunith’s son’. Does that… does it mean anything to you? He said it would…”

And the world tilted sideways.

Morgana spoke his name. She said it again.

But Gaius found himself speechless.

Hunith’s son? But that was impossible.

Merlin was dead.

* * *

 

“Gaius?”

Gaius started. Morgana had opened the door to her chamber by now and was trying to usher him through it. But all he could do was stand there and try to sort out his thoughts.

About ten or so years ago, he had received a visit from Hunith. She had been desolate. Gaius had never seen his younger sister so grieved. She had sat in a chair in his chambers for three days straight before she could be convinced to sleep, and not without a strong sleeping draught. And she had told him that her boy, her only son Merlin, was dead. That he had died of a fever. That she had buried him in the field next to their father.

He had asked her to come live with him in Camelot. Begged her. She had refused.

Morgana took his sleeve and pulled Gaius gently into her chambers. He dimly heard her closing the door behind him and latching it. Gaius took a deep breath and tried to slow his spinning thoughts. He did not know what this young man meant by ‘Hunith’s son’, but he would soon get to the bottom of it. He would. If this was some sort of trickery, some deception, in order to harm him or Camelot, he would seek it out.

“Please, Gaius.” Morgana was wringing her hands and standing before her dressing screen, looking behind it. But Gaius could not see what she was looking at yet. All in good time. He needed a moment to compose himself.

Gaius shook his head to clear it and set down his bag on the floor. “Before I start-…Morgana? May I speak with you?”

The lady moved back to where Gaius stood, close to the door of the chamber. “Of course, what is it?”

Gaius gently took the lady by the elbow and drew her a little farther away from the screen and leaned down, close to her ear. “My lady, how did you come to help this person?”

“Well, I…” And she paused a moment, meeting Gaius’ stare and her mouth hanging open.

She was thinking. He knew it. Gaius frowned.

And Morgana looked away, eyes flickering back to the space behind the little dressing screen. “He was injured in the courtyard earlier today…he was helping me. I felt terrible about it, so I offered him a rest in my chambers while he recovered.” She spoke quickly. “Who is Hunith?”

Strange… Usually an injury this serious would have been brought to his attention immediately. Something was going on. Besides, he knew what Morgana looked like when she was lying, and at this moment she was lying very well.

He ignored her question, it was a misdirection. “Morgana, why did not you come to me then?”

“He told me not to.” The lady scoffed, sighing. “He said it was nothing. But he just got worse and now he will barely wake up.” She crossed her arms.

Gaius eyed the lady in the dim candlelight a moment more, trying to glean any more information from her. Then he picked up his bag again and moved towards the dressing screen. “He is over here?”

“Yes.”

Gaius circled around the screen and peered into the alcove there, made private by the screen and the stone wall of the room. It was dim, he could only just make out two dark figures. Gaius squinted. Damn these old eyes.

“Morgana?” Gaius let his bag down to the floor again and pushed up the long sleeves of his robes.

“Yes?”

“Light, please?”

“Just a moment.” Came Gwen’s soft sing-song voice from behind him.

Gaius turned about. He hadn’t even noticed that Gwen was in the room. But of course she would be, he reminded himself. Those two were inseparable.

And true to her word, in a moment, Gwen was beside Gaius’s shoulder, a lit candle in a holder in her hand and a small smile.

“Thank you, Gwen.” Gaius nodded and took the candle.

The candle lit the little alcove quite nicely and now he could see that there were two people lying there in a mess of blankets. He quickly scanned the scene, taking in as much as he could. A young boy and a slightly older boy lay there, both dark-haired, both thin and malnourished. Definitely commoners, judging by their dull and well-worn clothes, but he did not recognize them from the Lower Town. At this point in his life, Gaius could almost safely say that he knew almost all those who inhabited the Lower Town of Camelot, if not by name, then by face. He had brought most of them into the world. And he knew neither of these boys by name or face.

The patient was immediately apparent. He was the older one. Gaius kneeled down by him and nodded at the younger boy, who was looking at him with wide eyes. “I’m a healer. I want to help him.” Gaius tried to reassure him. “Is this your brother?” He set the candle down on the floor while he opened his bag and pulled some of his supplies out.

The young boy shook his head but slid back a little to allow Gaius some space.

Gaius scooted a little closer, his legs and hips starting to cramp on the harsh stone floor. He sighed. It could not be helped right now. Oh well. He leaned in and took the patient’s wrist, feeling for the pulse of a heartbeat. He finally found it. It was quick. And soft. Neither were good signs. In addition to that, his skin was burning with a fever. Gaius set the hand gently back on the blankets and turned his eyes to the boy’s face. He studied the features. Hunith’s son? Perhaps. He could not really say. Something about the face may have looked a little like Hunith, or at least how he remembered her. But that did not prove anything. Besides, it may be wishful thinking on his part.

Gaius then looked to the bandage on the boy’s arm. “Is this your work, Gwen?” He moved the arm as carefully as he could, moving it closer so he could unwrap it.

“No, not mine.” The maid’s voice came from behind him.

“It is mine.”

Gaius turned to the Lady Morgana. “Beautiful work, my lady. I could not have done better myself.”

Morgana was standing by him, leaning down and watching him work, so that when he looked back and up at her, he could see her smile. “Thank you.” She answered. “I did not-… He told me how to do it.”

“Did he now?” Gaius undid the little knot on the bandage and began unwrapping it.

The youth shifted, eyes still closed, but Gaius could tell he was starting to wake. Good.

Gaius fully unwrapped the bandage and set aside the soiled cloth. Then he reached forward and lightly tapped the boy on the cheek to get his attention. He would be a little more at ease once this patient was awake and coherent. “Are you awake? Can you- ah-… His name?” He twisted around and shot the Lady Morgana a glance.

“Oh! Yes, of course.” Morgana folded her arms and sighed. “It’s Emrys.”

Gaius tapped the stirring boy’s cheek again. “Emrys. I am Gaius, the healer of Camelot. You are wounded and sick. Are you awake?” There was a soft moan in response. Well, it was better than nothing, Gaius supposed. He said that phrase far too often in his profession. He turned his attention to the wound. It was a long, deep cut in the upper arm, angry and red and still weeping blood. Made by a blade, Gaius concluded, a good blade. A sword, probably. What was this youth doing with a sword wound? He felt his suspicions rise like a dog’s hackles, but he held off on saying anything just yet. But this was odd indeed.

Gaius yawned. The poultice he had in mind would do nicely though and he set to work making that, pulling out the yarrow and honey and the mortar and pestle.

“Gwen?” Gaius crushed the yarrow in his hands. The young child, sitting with his knees to his chest, watched Gaius work.

“Yes?”

He tossed the herb in his mortar and began to mash it with the honey. “Boil some water and then when that has finished, boil some more.”

“Of course.” And the maid’s activity by the fireplace could be heard; the clanking of a kettle and the splashing of water.

A few minutes later, there was a soft sigh and the boy spoke. “Are you… Gaius?”

“Yes, I am he.” Gaius answered as he watched Gwen bring the heavy, metal kettle over and set it down beside him. It steamed. Gaius dipped a ladle into it and poured some of the boiling water into the mush of honey and yarrow in the mortar. He mixed that and set it aside. He would need to clean the wound before he decided whether or not to sew it shut. So he ripped a piece off the clean bandage he had brought, dipped it in the hot water, and began dabbing at the oozing wound. The dried blood started to wash away.

The boy gasped and tried to shy away from his touch, but Gaius held him firmly in place and continued to work on the cut.

Another minute or so passed. Gaius heard the two women behind him settle into chairs.

The patient spoke again. “Then I s’pose you’re my uncle.” Gaius could see the candlelight glimmering between the boy’s cracked eyelids.

Satisfied that he had cleaned the cut as best as he could, Gaius leaned back. It still bled. He would have to stitch it shut, exhausted as he was and in this terrible light. He had been dreading this.

Gaius sighed. “Gwen, I am going to need another candle.”

“Is there something wrong?” Morgana asked.

“I am going to sew the wound shut and I need a little more light.” Gaius dug into his bag for his little suturing kit, pulling out the curved needle and a little spool of silk thread.

“Oh.” Was Morgana’s soft reply.

Gwen soon appeared with another candle.

“Can you hold it close to me, dear?” He asked.

Gwen did so, crouching beside him and illuminating the wound quite nicely. Gaius threaded the needle and began the task. The boy grunted softly as the needle pierced his skin, but he made no other movements, staying very still. And every so often, Gaius glanced into the face of the patient, and each time he did so, he saw that the youth was watching his work.

After a few minutes, Gaius spoke again, the wound already halfway closed. “I have been told that you are my sister’s son.”

“I am.”

Gaius stopped sewing and squinted hard at his work, trying to bring it into focus again. “Hunith’s son is dead, she told me herself.”

“I had a fever… She sent me away, to healers.” The boy drew a shaky breath. “I stayed with them to learn healing.”

Gaius grunted softly. “So you’re a healer, then?”

“Of a sort.” Was the answer.

Gaius mulled this over as he finished the sutures and tied off the silk thread as best as he could in the dim light. He nodded at Gwen, who pulled the candle away and retreated. A healer, eh? Well, you’re certainly no physician. But Gaius did not say this out loud. He kept his mouth shut and began getting the poultice ready again. What was a healer doing that got him injured in Camelot? Something tickled at the back of Gaius’ mind as he smeared a little honey on the wound, but he could not quite puzzle it out. And he did not have time to sit and think about it. He needed to finish tending to the patient first.

Gaius placed some of the linen bandage over the stitched wound, pasted some of the warm yarrow poultice over that, then began rewrapping the bandage. He could not stay quiet for long, however. He needed to hear whatever strange story this person had to tell, this person who was claiming to be Hunith’s boy.

He sighed, and as he worked, he spoke again. “Why did Hunith lie to me then? About your death?” Gaius looked over at the boy again, watching for his response. The boy took his time answering. He licked his lips. He panted quietly. Looked up at Gaius too, meeting his eyes. There seemed to be a little of Hunith in those eyes. But Gaius could not let himself be drawn into that. He kept watching.

The boy’s eyes slid closed a moment, then opened again. He finally spoke again, voice weak and strained. “It was for… to keep us safe. It was better for her that they thought… that I was dead.”

Something slid into place. Healers. Safety. A sword wound. Hiding in Morgana’s chambers.

Druids.

These were the Druids that the guards were searching for. Gaius froze. These were Druids. And the Lady Morgana was hiding them. Gaius’ mind went blank and, for one of the few times of his fairly long life, he did not know where to even begin to do something about this catastrophe. Instead, he kept working, winding the long bandage about the wound until there was no more left and he tied it up with a small, careful knot. When Gaius went to stand and to stretch his aching legs, the Druid boy reached out with his good arm and took Gaius’ hand. He would not let go. Gaius looked back.

“I have not met you.” The boy was trying hard to keep his voice strong, his gaze focused on Gaius, brow furrowed in concentration. “Nor you, me. But I beg you…we need your help. My mother once told me that-… that I could trust you,… with anything.”

Gaius sighed. How was he supposed to process all this? His sister’s son, back from the dead, and a Druid. The Lady Morgana, harboring Druids. And he, caught in the middle of it all. He must think of a method to prove whether or not this was his nephew. What question could he ask?

A moment or so passed and Gaius found his voice again. “How can I trust you, Emrys? Do you even recall the name your mother gave you?”

The Druid boy let go of Gaius’ hand and smiled faintly. “I’m Merlin.”


	3. His Name, Emrys

"Why haven't they been found yet?"

Arthur winced but stayed still and silent, standing before his father's rage; someone had to. Besides, there was more the man wanted to say before Arthur would be able to get a word in edgewise.

The King continued. "Two boys," He spat. "Two children. Defenseless, in a territory unfamiliar to them, and yet they cannot be found! Why?"

A pause.

The King stared at Arthur, gripping the edge of the long table he sat before. This was probably his cue. Arthur cleared his throat.

"My lord." Arthur began. "The Druids were only in Camelot to collect supplies. They are children, as you say, they meant no harm. And," Arthur added. "We should consider the possibility that they have already escaped."

"They have not." The King stood slowly, grimacing.

Arthur wondered why he did it at all if it pained him so much.

"They are still here, I know it. And someone is hiding them." The King reached and took a nearby goblet, drank from it, and set it down again. Arthur noticed that his father's hands shook, despite all the man's efforts to appear calm and collected. "And of course they mean harm. They are users of magic."

Arthur watched the King's movements, too familiar with the malady that plagued his father constantly. Familiar with and tired of, to be honest. Either the man used it as an excuse to kill every poor sod that accidentally farted out a few sparks of magic, or he ignored it to the point of denial so that everyone had to pretend that their King was not a cripple.

But he was the King. And he was Arthur's father. So Arthur bit back any treasonous thoughts and pressed on.

"The Druids are a peaceful people. I'm sure that if you-"

The King slammed his hand down on the table. The sound filled the large stone chamber, echoing off the walls. Arthur resisted the urge to take a step back and he felt his heart skip a few beats.

"Given the chance, they would return magic to the kingdom. They preach peace but conspire against me." The King spoke slowly, softly, as though he were having a conversation about the weather or some other banal subject. "We cannot appear weak."

This was true. Their enemies were many and many of them desired the lands that Camelot had held. Arthur had heard this from birth. Enemies on all sides. Weakness cannot be tolerated. Survival at all costs. But still… Two boys?

Arthur shook his head. "Showing mercy… it can be a sign of strength."

The King limped around the corner of the table, using the edge as support with every step. "Our enemies will not see it that way. We-"

We.

And here, the King directed a biting stare at Arthur, and Arthur did take a step back. We. That inclusive title filled him with a twisted sense of pride and trepidation. We. You and I. Father and son. Equals. Arthur swallowed hard.

"We have a responsibility to protect this kingdom. Finding and executing the Druids will send out a clear message." Every step had taken the King closer to Arthur. Finally, he laid a hand on Arthur's shoulder, gripping it. "Find them. You must search every inch of the city, my son."

Arthur felt himself nodding. Felt himself leave the throne room. Felt the doors close behind him with a thud. Found himself in the corridor, standing there, wondering how he was going to hunt down two small children and deliver them to the axe.

Arthur reached up and brushed some hair out of his eyes; it was getting too long and he would have to have someone cut it again. He swallowed hard. The corridor was mercifully empty, otherwise, any passerby may see his ridiculous pallor. He felt himself gradually paling as he mentally laid out and noted which captains of the guard were on duty and available to begin the search. There were two. And he would have to decide on how long the shifts would last in order to give the men rest. Of course, if the two boys were found soon, the guards would not have to work in shifts. Arthur swallowed again. That would be ideal, would it not?

They were enemies. They were Druids. He would have to find a way to justify it. Or he could stand here in the corridor until his father exited the throne room and asked what the hell he was doing just standing here and did he actually care for Camelot at all.

Yes, questioning one's loyalty constantly is a tried and true way of ensuring said loyalty.

Arthur took a deep breath and pointed himself in the direction of the barracks and the guard offices there. He would find at least one captain there. The other was probably patrolling the marketplace, especially after what had happened. He set his jaw and just kept walking.

Two children should be easy to find. Sickeningly easy.

Nearly a half hour later, Arthur was at the head of a few guards and searching each and every room on the eastern side of the castle. The other unoccupied Captain of the Castle Guard, who had been throwing dice down by the holding cells with a few of his off-duty companions, was presumably searching the western half of the castle as Arthur himself had directed him.

Arthur climbed the narrow Griffin Stairway, his footsteps echoed by the men behind him. So many people following him, so many more once he became king. Arthur swallowed hard, and nearly walked into Gaius.

"Gaius!" Arthur grabbed the old man by the shoulders, steadying him. "Be a little more careful."

"I'm sorry, my lord." The old man was pale and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked positively awful. "I just was not thinking."

"In hurry?" Arthur eyed the physician a little more. He had his large bag. He had been visiting someone.

"No, just leaving."

"Is someone ill?"

"Oh no."

"Really?"

"Well, yes. I was just checking on-..." The old man mopped his brow, trailing off.

Arthur frowned. Something was up. "Yes?"

"Oh, yes. I was checking on the Lady Morgana. She's feeling a little poorly."

"Oh really?" Arthur snorted. "What imagined illness does she have now?"

"Well, she says that she's had a little headache since the other day."

"Does not sound so bad." Arthur shrugged. "Well, I am sure she will not mind myself searching her chambers briefly." He started walking up the spiral stairs again and glanced back at Gaius. "King's orders."

"Oh, no!"

Oh, yes. Arthur reached the top and his shoulder was gripped by Gaius's strong hand. "What?"

The physician was leaning in now, very close, speaking low and soft. "I'm afraid that it would be too much excitement for the lady. Besides, I was just in her chambers. There is no one there."

"So, you know we are searching for the Druids?" Arthur pulled away gently from Gaius' hand. Something strange was happening here. Perhaps it was Gaius that was ill and not Morgana.

"What? Yes! NO!" Gaius cleared his throat. "Of course." He then nodded slowly. "Everyone knows they are sought after."

"Then the Lady Morgana will understand the position I'm in." Arthur walked over to the door to the Lady Morgana's chambers.

"Sire!" Gaius called from behind him. "The Lady is ill and does not need disturbing!"

Why was he speaking so loudly? Arthur turned around. The old man was, if possible, even more pale and sweaty than before. He did not have time for this. Since Gaius was so insistent, Arthur compromised.

"You," He nodded at the few guards that he had recruited earlier. "Stay out here." Then he looked to Gaius again, putting his hand to the door. "See? Only me, and I will only be a minute."

"But sire..."

Arthur knocked on the door. A moment passed. He tapped his foot. She always did take forever to answer her door. Always so inconsiderate. Making him wait-

The door popped open, but only just a crack, and Morgana's face was there and she was looking up at him. She looked...breathless, maybe? And tired. Tired like Gaius.

Why is everyone so tired, Arthur found himself wondering.

"Arthur!" Morgana gave him one of those smiles without a smile. It looked like a smile at first, but it really was not. It did not reach her eyes. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" She looked him up and down, then she looked back into the room, whispered something.

Women!

"Do not get all excited. This is not a social call." Arthur grunted and pushed on the door to open it. Some resistance. Arthur frowned. Morgana must be holding it, must have her foot jammed behind it. Why? He dug his shoulder in and wedged the door open wide enough to slip inside. The door slammed shut behind him. "I am looking for the Druid boys. I am afraid I am going to have to search your cham-...bers."

Arthur heard himself trail off, heard himself sigh, felt himself lean against the door in resignation.

Morgana's chambers were a little dim, due to the curtains being drawn across the tall windows, and the flickering from the fire burning in the little fireplace was the brightest source of light. So Arthur could really only just make out the form of a young boy standing there, in the middle of the Lady Morgana's chambers, standing in front of a young child. Another boy. Their forms were dark silhouettes. But they were unmistakable. Unmistakably druids.

Arthur felt his chest tighten. The room seemed airless. He did not want this.

"Arthur, you have got to listen to me-..." Morgana was saying something, gripping his arm tightly.

He did not really have the strength to resist her or say anything in return or, for that matter, listen to anything she had to say. Any excuses she would be making up on the spot. It was entirely like Morgana to make everything difficult for him. It was like she was always standing by with some rock to throw into his plans.

She was still talking. That's all she was, talk.

Arthur could only stare at the two shaking boys.

"Morgana!" He could not stand it any longer. "Shut up!"

And, miraculously, she did.

Arthur heard himself sigh again. Now he could think. Examined the room again. The guards are waiting outside. He must do something, and quickly.

Morgana stood beside him, hand to her mouth, unusually silent. Gwen, Morgana's maid, was quivering by the fireplace. The girl looked terrified, like she was the one being hunted down like some type of quarry. And the two boys. The two druids. Arthur grit his teeth. The taller one stood in front of the small one, hand on the younger boy's shoulder, keeping the child behind him. Protecting the child. From him. From Arthur.

Arthur felt his insides shrivel at the thought.

He had to be quick. The guards were waiting on him.

"Morgana..." Arthur kept his voice low and as calm as he could. "What is going on here?"

Morgana let her hand drop from her mouth. "Well, um-"

"Sir." A voice rasped.

Arthur turned. The tall boy. Morgana started.

The druid tried to stand a little straighter, swaying slightly. "You are looking for me?" Stepped closer. Stepped into the light of the fire.

The druid's face was long with large ears, black hair messy and dark. He was gangling and awkward-looking. A youth. Cusp of manhood. Arthur had seen many of them in his time, despite not being far past that stage himself. This was the kind of youth that would file in and out of the barracks, looking for a career as a knight. He had trained many. He knew that age well. They were rash, sure of themselves, and dumb.

And there was a bandage on the druid's arm. This matched up with accounts given.

Honestly, he was not sure how to answer a question such as that. Oh course he was bloody well looking for the Druid fugitives!

Arthur put a hand to the hilt of the sword at his side. "I am looking for the two Druid boys." He then turned to Morgana. "Morgana, have you something to tell me? Something to perhaps...explain?"

For once in her life, she looked remorseful.

Well, there is a first time for everything, Arthur reminded himself.

"Well, you see, the thing is..."

Arthur frowned. The druid youth was still talking, some kind of weird smile on his face. What the hell?

The druid continued. "I was hiding in this, uh, lady's room. And then, she found me." He shrugged. "I don't really want to fight. I'll come quietly."

Well, what was he supposed to say to that?

Arthur closed his open mouth and cleared his throat. "Uh, well-"

"That is not at all what happened!" Morgana seemed to have regained her composure quicker that he, and she stepped between Arthur and the Druid. "Arthur, I think you should listen to me. These boys, they have not done anything wrong save trying to survive. You cannot-"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Morgana, step aside. They have broken the law-"

"What law?" She scoffed. "It is barely a law. It is a death sentence. An excuse for murder."

"Morgana." Arthur warned. "I do not have the leisure to question the King's orders."

The taller boy put a hand to Morgana's shoulder and she looked back at him, and the boy looked as though he was leaning on her. Arthur noticed that by now, Gwen the maid was standing near the back, holding the younger boy's hand. Comforting him. Just how long had these children been hiding here?

"I agree with you, my friend." The Druid rasped, staring at Arthur. Staring directly at him, right in the eyes, a criminal. The cheek!

Arthur bristled. "Pardon me?" He asked.

Stepping forward, the tall Druid spoke again. "We cannot ignore the orders of the King. I have broken laws and I should answer for it, shouldn't I?"

What was he playing at? Arthur frowned. The boy only mentioned himself, and not the other Druid.

"You will." Arthur answered shortly, nodding. "You and your associate are under arrest for-"

"There's no one else here but me." The Druid broke in.

Arthur eyed the small boy in the back of the room. "Not true."

"I'm the only one you've found in this lady's rooms." The Druid looked Arthur directly in the eyes. Piercing. "I hid in here all by myself. The lady didn't know. And I'm coming with you...quietly."

Arthur understood now. But these were not his orders. He sighed. "I'm afraid I shall have to bring the boy back there too, whether he's with you or not."

"Sir." The Druid whispered. "I'm begging you. Please." The youth was shaking. He held out his hands to Arthur, palms upward. "There's no one else but me. I'll come with you. I won't fight." His gaze did not falter.

A surrender.

The Druids are a peaceful people.

Arthur glanced away from the Druid's strong, blue eyes, back to the child that stood, quivering, behind it all. Behind his protector. Arthur felt his insides, slippery, slide into tangles and knots. No. No, he wasn't going to deliver a child to the axe.

A long time passed. Long. Seconds, minutes, hours maybe. Who was to say?

Arthur nodded.

The Druid youth nodded too. He seemed to deflate and to sway a moment. Arthur swallowed hard and took the boy by the arm, the unbandaged one. Cleared his throat. Spoke like the prince he was.

"I am arresting you in the name of the King for the crime of magic." He had to leave now. The guards outside would be suspicious.

Morgana had stood by until now, silent and still, but she exploded. "Arthur, you don't have to do this!" She took the Druid's other hand in her own. So that now Arthur held fast to one arm of the Druid, and Morgana held claim over the other. Holding the youth. "Emrys, wait-"

"Thank you, my lady." The Druid spoke softly, giving no resistance to Arthur's grip, but still leaned close to the Lady Morgana and murmured. "Get him out of the city."

Arthur pretended he had not heard that. No. Did not hear anything at all.

He reached back and opened the chamber door. "Make it look convincing." He muttered.

"I'll try." Emrys the Druid answered.

* * *

The King sat on his throne.

He let his creaking body settle into the hard wood. The red velvet cushioning of the throne had long ago conformed to his body, so that every time he perched upon his throne his body hit the rigid wooden frame. He groaned to himself softly. He was very quiet, even though there was no one else in the throne room. Habit, he supposed. A King does not complain. He orders. He directs. But he does not mewl like some babe. He surveyed the room as he waited, feeling his stiff body slowly becoming one with his throne the longer he sat. Soon it would feel natural, as natural as laying down for sleep or as natural as blinking.

He fit his throne so well. And the throne, him. But who was made for who? He wondered.

The King settled into the old, familiar pose. Back straight. Legs apart. His old wound throbbed at his left, throbbed like he had some mongrel with teeth bared, biting down into his thigh and refusing to let go. It would settle down after a while. He had put his weight on it just a moment earlier and now it cried out for stillness. Sitting for a time would help the pain settle. The King grit his teeth. He waited.

Soon enough his personal guards entered.

The King waited.

They all took their places.

The Lady Morgana and her maid entered and took their marks beside him. A small, carved chair for the Lady and the maid stood by her side. The King's eyes slid to the side. The Lady stared forward. What was her part in this? He thought to himself. Soon enough she saw his gaze and met his eyes. Glittered. Not a twitch. She was not frightened.

Everything settled into place, like one's teeth do when one bites down. Everything has a proper place.

And the doors opened again. The Crown Prince entered, leading a few more guards, who carried between their ranks, a boy.

A Druid.

A magic-user.

The King felt a snarl form on his lips. Everything in its proper place. Everything settled into place. The doors closed.

The Prince spoke with a strong voice and detailed how he had found the Druid, and where. His diction was good. He was speaking from the diaphragm. This was just as the King had taught the Prince and he found himself nodding along with the Prince's report, even though he had heard it all minutes earlier before they had all filed into the throne room.

He had heard it all. Only one of the two boys had been found, and he had been found hiding in the Lady Morgana's chambers.

She was safe, though. He knew that she was safe now. But just the thought of that scum, cowering in her rooms, bleeding and dangerous. Well... The King was very thankful that the Lady Morgana was safe. He glanced over at his ward again and saw that the Lady was staring at the Druid. She was pale. Yes, of course. She had to be frightened. She had been so close to harm and had not known it. Of course she was frightened of the Druid.

The King turned his gaze back to the prisoner.

His wound throbbed with heat, with a dull and deep sting.

The Druid was a young man, a boy, built long and lanky like most youths his age. His clothes were simple and worn, made of rough dull cloth. He wore a bandage on his arm. He looked like any other villager. He looked like any other boy. And there was the danger.

They walk among us.

The Crown Prince finished his report to the King and the King leaned to one side slowly, resting his elbow on the armrest of his throne. The pain in his thigh eased a little. He let the throne room fall into silence. Deeper and deeper. Into silence. He watched the Druid intently.

The boy was held between two guards, leaning on them, his wrists already bound in shackles.

He looked up at the King.

Looked right through him.

The King parted his lips and spoke. "Lady Morgana!" He broke the silence like he would dash a cup to the ground, shattering it. He knew that the girl beside him started. He could see it in the corner of his vision. "I am so very thankful that this filth did not harm you while he concealed himself in your chambers." He looked to his ward. "Very thankful."

The Lady inclined her head to him. "Thank you, sire. I am very grateful as well."

"Yes." The King continued. "You were very lucky indeed."

He then let the silence fall again. The echoes from his voice in the large room died away once more, faded, and then were gone. He let everything settle.

The King spoke again, turning back to the Druid. The boy was still watching him, unflinching. "You have been convicted of the crime of magic, which within the bounds of these lands is illegal and punishable by death. You have entered this city, this place of peace and safety, under false pretenses in order to spread fear and to harm those that dwell here."

The King watched the Druid stand a little straighter as he leveled the charges, draw himself up, and focus that insolent stare.

He nodded to the guards holding the boy. "Check his eyes."

One of the guards grabbed the boy's head and forced it down, forcing his stare away. And the Druid's eyes stayed on the stone floor. Good.

"You will be put to death and quickly." The King watched the back of the Druid's head. "But before that, you will reveal the location of your companion."

After a moment or two, the Druid shrugged and shook his bowed head.

"On his knees, now!" The King leaned forward a little, preparing to stand. "Where is the other Druid hiding?"

The guards that held each of the Druid's arms forced the boy to his knees and held him there. The Druid still shook his head.

The King moved slowly to his feet, making each movement look slow, careful, and deliberate. He limped down from his throne, ignoring the fire in his leg that became so freshly ignited and raging. The Prince came forward to meet him and held out his gloved hand. Not in front of his subjects. No. The King ignored the Prince's hand and help and finished stepping down from the dais under his own power. He was not such a cripple yet.

"You will not live to see my men drag him from his hiding place." The King walked over to where the Druid was held, shaking, on his knees. Pathetic. "I would have you tell me his whereabouts now, lest I need force it from you."

Still, the Druid kept his eyes on the ground. He was still. He was silent.

The King felt his lip curl and he sighed. Reaching down, the King grabbed the boy's chin and yanked it up until he could see the youth's face once more. The King stared down into the scum's eyes. "This is your final warning, filth, tell me the whereabouts of your companion or I will-"

"He's gone!" The youth's voice was a little muffled by the King's tight grip on his jaw. "He's out of the city. He's gone."

The King did not let go. "How?"

The youth shrugged and the King saw the tiniest of smiles on his lips. "Magic?"

The nerve!

The King tossed the youth's chin away roughly and looked to the nearest guard, the one that held firm to the Druid's left arm. "Alert the executioner." And he turned, preparing to make the walk back up to his throne. All was done here. He would snuff out this nuisance and continue looking for the other Druid. He continued. "Have him prepare for-"

"Your Highness, I want to negotiate with-"

The King spun around. "Silence him!" The Druid boy was still speaking.

One of the guards struck the Druid.

Out of the corner of his eye, the King saw the Crown Prince flinch. He would have words with the Prince later on that score. No weakness was to be shown in front of subjects of the kingdom.

"The terms of my- my imprisonment. I want to speak with you," The boy would not be silent and cried out all in a rush, his words a slurry. "One king, to another!"

The Lady Morgana stood from her chair up on the dais, the King heard her movement from behind him.

"Be silent, you worm." The King spat.

The young Druid's voice filled the throne room. "I am Emrys, Chieftain of the Druids! Their leader!"

The guards pulled the dark-haired youth to his feet and the boy struggled against them. The King waited until the hall fell silent again, watching the Druid turn pale, staring at him, lips white and shaking. Emrys? He had not heard of this name before, nor did he know of any chieftains. Were the Druids that organized already? What were they plotting against him. Doubtless it was all lies, the name and the title, created by the Druid in order to save his own miserable skin. But what could he glean from these lies? Perhaps the Druids' plans against Camelot. Information.

The boy continued pleading in the silence that the King allowed. His voice shook. "I am your prisoner, that I know. But th-there must be some compromise, something my people can do for you in exchange for my life. They will obey me, all of them. If I told them to leave these lands, to stay away from Camelot and never come back, they would do it. They would never bother you again. In return, I'd be your prisoner...for life." He was panting now. "Please, I'll come quietly. No magic, no magic. Please..." The Druid's head hung down and he seemed to need the support of the guards that held him, leaning heavily to once side.

Convenient, the King noted. "So I should just spare your life, until the day comes when you simply spring yourself from my dungeons using your magic and wreak havoc in my kingdom? I should just trust that you will keep your word and not rejoin your people?"

And here, the Prince spoke up. "Father, there is-"

The King held up a hand. "Silence!" He kept his eyes on the boy. "The word of a magic-user means nothing."

The Druid's legs gave out.

After lifting the youth's head by the hair and examining the whites of the Druid's eyes, a guard reported."He's fainted, sire."

"Take him to the dungeons." The King waved his hand towards the door. "And, again, inform the executioner that he should be ready to perform this afternoon."

The King watched the guards drag the Druid boy from the throne room. He then slowly walked up the dais, past the Prince and shifted his way into sitting upon his throne again. The hard wood hurt his body. His thigh throbbed. The heavy doors that gave ingress and egress to the throne room shut firmly, making the air within the hall quiver and vibrate. He let it settle. The King sat on his throne, staring at the closed doors.

"Prince Arthur." He spoke again after a few minutes. "You will continue your search for the other Druid. Strengthen your efforts. He must be found." And he looked to the Crown Prince. "You may go." The Prince nodded and left.

The King waited.

Then he looked to his ward, he looked to the Lady Morgana, who had by now sat back down in her little chair beside him. "Are you well, Morgana? Not too shaken?"

The girl's lips were pressed tight and bloodless. She did look very nervous indeed. She shook her head, however. "No, sire. I am well enough." And she stood quickly. "May I go?" But without waiting for the King's answer, his ward stalked down the steps of the dais and strode quickly down the hall's length to the large doors at the other end. Her maid followed, tiptoeing.

The King watched her, sitting on his throne.


	4. A Noble Cause

"Would you like me to wash that off?"

Mordred started. The beautiful lady had just come back and was looking at him and smiling. She was pointing to his belly. Mordred looked down. No, not to his belly. To his hand, which was laying in his lap and covered in dried blood. His master's blood. Mordred squinted. He could see the flakes of it, coming off, peeling off his skin. He closed his hand into a fist.

He shook his head and frowned up at her. She was one of them. She was one of the people that had taken his master, Emrys, away from. They were keeping them apart. Mordred could not trust them. He was trapped.

"Oh." The lady smiled again, but it was different.

Mordred looked down at his hand and his eyes began to burn again. He had been doing that a lot lately, crying. Only babies cry. He wasn't a baby. The blood was everywhere, in the beds of his fingernails, in each little crease of his palm, like dark spiderwebs. Usually spiderwebs were white. But these were dark. He was caught in a web. He and his master were definitely caught in a web. What were they going to do? Was his master ever going to come back?

Mordred squeezed his eyes shut.

Was Emrys already dead? He couldn't hear him anymore. He had tried to call out into the darkness to his master many times, but there had been so answer.

"There is no need to cry, hush." There was a hand on his shoulder. Unfamiliar.

Mordred swiped at his eyes.

The beautiful lady kept talking. "I swear to you, I will make sure you and Emrys are safe. I swear it, on my life."

Mordred looked up again.

The lady was kneeling beside him now. Mordred had sat in the mess of blankets that he and his master had spent the night in, curled up, hiding. And the lady was kneeling beside him in the blankets, her hand rubbing his shoulder lightly.

"All of us want to help you. So do not be scared." And the beautiful lady waved at the other beautiful lady who had helped heal his master. The one with the big smile and the curly hair. "Are you hungry?" The first asked.

He was. He had not eaten in so long. But he hadn't felt like eating either. But he found himself nodding, just as the curly-haired lady brought over a loaf of bread and something that looked like cheese. His mouth watered.

"Wonderful." The lady who had been patting his shoulder took the loaf of bread and the cheese and set them in the blankets. "Thank you, Gwen."

That was right. The curly-haired lady was named Gwen. He hadn't been listening very well before.

The beautiful lady had a knife. Mordred backed away. They had been lying to him. They had all been lying.

The beautiful lady laughed in a frowny sort of way, brows knitting together. "I'm sorry. This isn't for you. This is for the bread and cheese. Don't be scared."

And Mordred watched as she cut the heel off the bread and cut a few more slices, then portioned out the cheese. He sighed and felt his stomach gurgle.

"I heard that. Now, I know you are hungry. You will not be able to deny it anymore." The beautiful lady smiled funny again and gave him a slice of bread with a piece of the cheese on top. He could smell the cheese before it even reached his hand.

Mordred took it and before he knew it the bread and cheese had disappeared and he was being handed more.

As he ate, the beautiful lady nibbled on some of the cheese while the lady called Gwen did things in the room. Every so often, Mordred would look up and she was doing something different. Something with the fire in the fireplace. Something with a big piece of cloth. Something with a broom. She was always moving. Mordred looked back down at his lap. It was filled with crumbs from the bread.

"Now, Mordred, may I ask you a question?"

Morgana, that was her name. Names were hard sometimes.

Mordred nodded and picked up a few crumbs and ate them.

The beautiful lady laughed and Mordred soon found another slice of bread in his hands. He was so hungry.

"So, Mordred. Where do you live?"

Mordred shrugged, his mouth full of the bread. But when he finally swallowed he looked up to the window above them. "Out there in the woods. We move around a lot."

"You and Emrys?"

Mordred winced. Where was his master? But he nodded. "All of us. Me, and Emrys, and all the others."

"And Emrys is their leader?"

Mordred frowned at the beautiful lady named Morgana. How did she know that? He wasn't supposed to talk about stuff like that. It was a secret.

He just shrugged.

"It is okay, Mordred. I am just trying to help you." The lady touched his shoulder again.

Mordred felt his lip quiver. No, he wasn't going to cry. Babies cried. A lump rose in his throat. "W-where is he? Where is my master?" He asked. "Is he safe?"

"Your master?"

Mordred covered his face in his hands. He felt like hiding. He felt like crawling in a hole, or going home. One of the two. Anywhere but here in this awful place. "H-he's my master and he teaches me things an-and I-I-I c-can't do anything w-without him, please." He sobbed.

It took him a moment to calm down. And when he did, he felt someone rubbing circles into his back. It was nice. Mother used to do that.

Mother.

No. Mordred swallowed down that sob too.

He wiped his eyes on the backs of his hands and sniffled a moment before looked up at Morgana again. She smiled down at him.

"I am sorry." Her hand left his back. "I did not mean to upset you."

Mordred nodded. "I'm his apprentice. He teaches me stuff, stuff he knows. He knows a lot."

"I am sure he does." The lady smiled again.

The other lady, Gwen, was standing by. She smiled too when Mordred looked at her.

Morgana lifted her arms and Mordred watched as she tied her hair up into some kind of bun. And she spoke while doing it. "I am going to help you, Mordred, you and your master, I swear it. But you have got to give me something first."

"W-what do you need?"

The lady smiled something that looked a little tight. "Information."

* * *

"I am the Royal Physician."

"No visitors are to be allowed to the prisoner while he is awaiting execution. King's orders, sir." The guard answered, staring into the space behind Gaius, not even looking him in the eyes.

Gaius swallowed hard and suddenly he felt very old. Well, he was old, but that was beside the point. He sighed and looked around. Nothing came to mind. But he had to try. "Chadwick, correct?"

"Yes, sir." Chadwick the guard answered, shifting a little in place.

Gaius pressed his lips together, thinking a moment, then spoke again. "How's your arm?"

"My what?"

"Your arm, Chadwick. You broke it, some years ago."

The guard spoke slowly. "That was," He shook his head. "That was near twenty years ago. I was... Well, I was seven."

"And who set your arm, Chadwick?" Gaius prodded.

Chadwick huffed a little and he finally eyed Gaius, looking down at him, eyes glittering in the flickering torches that dotted the dungeon walls. "Oh no, don't you-"

"Carried you from the orchard where you fell." Gaius leveled a squint at the man he had once carried for near a mile, all the way to the boy's home.

"That's not-"

"Chadwick, I believe you should step aside now."

"Sir-"

"Please!"

The guard wilted a little and after a few seconds that lasted a lifetime, he shifted aside and the way through to the dungeons was clear. "Just be quick. I need this job."

Gaius, heart racing, stepped forward. "I know you do. Thank you." And he patted the man's shoulder as he passed.

He walked down the small corridor, the stones beneath his soft shoes becoming rougher and more uneven as he moved further and further into the dungeons. He could hear the torches hissing, and nothing else. Finally, he came to the last cell, the smallest, sunk into a corner of the thick stone walls and set on the other two sides with cold, interlocking iron bars. He knelt down by the cell, his knees groaning, but he shifted as close as he could. He pressed his side into the bars and he could feel the cold iron through his warm clothing. Peering through one of the gaps, Gaius spoke softly.

"Emrys?"

The small figure that lay curled up on the other side of the cell shifted slightly. Became still again.

Gaius watched and waited, breathing softly, ears strained and listening. He looked down the corridor, towards the direction from which he had come, watching. No one came around the corner. He tried again.

"Emrys?"

The figure moved again and slowly crawled it's way across the jail cell floor until it reached Gaius. The Druid's pale face was washed over with the weak torchlight, flickering, wavering. Gaius could hear him panting. See the sweat beading on the boy's forehead.

"Hello." The Druid, his nephew, cracked a smile.

Gaius could not quite muster one to return. Instead he looked down and reached into his bag, muttering as searched. "I have brought you some things, but we must be quick. I do not have much time down here. I had hoped to change your bandage but no one is to open your cell until... well, until." He finished, at a loss for words.

"Until my execution." Emrys leaned his forehead against the rough iron bars.

Yes, those words.

Gaius paused a moment. "Yes." He finally answered. Then he went back to pulling out the items he had brought, and he had brought as much as his little satchel would carry. It had been full to bursting. First, a little jar of tea made from some chamomile flowers that he had picked last summer. It had been hot tea about half an hour or so ago when he brewed it. But the journey here and arguing with the guard had given it time to cool to lukewarm. Still, it was something. He had put it in a little brown clay jar with a narrow neck, so that he could stopper it with a cork. He set it on the ground. Next, some brown bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth. That was set on the ground too. The Druid spoke again as Gaius unpacked.

"You are too kind to me." He croaked, softly.

"Am I?" Gaius chuckled sadly. It was a strange situation he was in, gaining a nephew and then, immediately, losing him in the space of twelve or so hours. He was not sure how to feel about it. Mostly, he felt tired. Very tired.

"Yes."

Gaius had finished unpacking by now and his burden was laid out on the floor beside him. "First things first." He cleared his throat and cleared his mind. "Let us get some food and drink into you." He handed the stoppered clay jar of tea, through the gap in the bars, and into the hands of the Druid boy.

"What is it?"

"Infusion of chamomile. It was hot. It is only warm now."

Gaius heard the cork come unplugged from the jar. In the dim light, he saw the boy sniff the contents. He sighed. "Smells like sunshine."

The sun didn't reach down here in the dungeons.

"Drink it, then I'll give you some food. After that, I'll work on your wound as best as I can." Gaius tried to settle himself into a more comfortable position on the cold, hard, and rough stone floor. But it was impossible.

"You don't have to do this."

The words cut. Cut deep. Why was he like this? Hunith had always told him he was too weepy, would tease him about it.

Gaius swallowed hard, tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "I do. Because," He spoke softly, looking back down the corridor again. It was clear. "I have a plan."

Gaius heard the little clay jar set down on the stones, grating a little.

There was a pause. "What?"

He passed the bread and cheese through next. "Here. No talking. Eat quickly."

He didn't have to ask twice, the boy became silent while he ate.

"I have an idea." Gaius continued. "To make you useful. So that executing you would be something like a mistake."

"Oh, really?" Came the mealy answer, mouth full.

Gaius wrinkled his nose. "I have thought about it quite thoroughly and it seems to be your best chance of survival."

Emrys must have swallowed his mouthful. "Escape?"

Gaius heard the hope in that word. He winced. "Not exactly. I must ask, Emrys, the Druids are known for their skill in healing, not just with medicine, but also with... magic?"

A pause. "This is true."

"Good, good." Gaius nodded. "Then am I right in assuming that you have similar skills? That you have been taught them by the Druids?"

Another pause. Gaius started to sweat. Finally, the answer came from the dark cell. "Yes."

"Good." He sighed and let out the breath he had been holding in. "Good." He repeated. He stared down at the rough stone flagged floor, watching the dancing torchlight play over the rough patterns there. Hunith's boy, Hunith's dead son, a Druid. These were strange days indeed. So very strange.

"So what's the plan?"

Gaius started. "Yes, well." He rubbed one eye, it felt crusty from lack of sleep. "The King has an old injury, one that still pains him. It lingers and never heals properly. I have done all I can for him, but you..."

"Pain of the joints?" The boy offered.

Not quite. Gaius could see the wound, as plain as day, in his mind's eye. It was seared there. "No."

The Druid had leaned close enough that the weak torchlight flickered onto his face again. Gaius saw the brow knit and the small frown. "Poorly healed bone?"

Gaius shook his head. "A wound inflicted by magic, never healing."

A sharp intake of breath, and the boy hissed softly. "Sounds awful."

Gaius felt a small chuckle but didn't give in to it. There was some sort of irony here, but he was too anxious to understand it. "Do you... Do you sympathize with him?" He asked.

The Druid shifted, Gaius heard it because the chains shackled around his feet clinked across the stone floor, and then there was a long pause. Finally, the boy spoke again, his words slow and careful but firm. "I wouldn't wish ill on anyone, especially not something like that." And then he seemed to speak to himself, his voice low. "Magic should not be used to harm."

Gaius thought back, back to a time when magic was more commonplace. Then, it had been used to help and to hurt in equal measure, just as one could steady a person with a hand and then the next moment, strike them. It seemed so long ago now.

"So I am to fix him?" Emrys asked.

Gaius started. "Uh, yes. That's the idea. Can you?"

"I hope."

"It's all I have." Gaius admitted. It was true. He had, for the past couple hours, wracked his brain for any possible method to save the Druid. This half-baked plan and a headache was all he had to show for his troubles.

"It's more than I have." The Druid laughed a little, but it was soft and hollow. "I am ready to face it, you know, death."

"No." Gaius's heart had stuttered. "No, I can not let that happen. Not to-..." He cleared his throat. "Not to my sister's son.

Emrys, Hunith's son and Gaius's newfound nephew, put his hand through the iron grate that separated the two of them, reached towards Gaius. "I'm glad to have met you. My mother spoke of you often."

Gaius took that hand, thin but strong, in his rough and arthritic palms. Took it in both his worn hands. The skin was hot; the boy was still feverish. A lump rose hard in his throat. A mountain to speak around. A mountain between the two of them. And it was a mountain he would move.

Gaius nodded, he could not speak quite yet, he did not dare trust his voice. They stayed like that for a couple more minutes before Gaius released his nephew's hand and sniffed loudly, sighing. "Alright, let me bandage your arm." He shifted and reached, grabbing the roll of linen that he had set aside when unpacking.

"Oh, how are you to do it with me in here?"

Gaius let his hands drop to his lap. "I hadn't thought about that."

His nephew laughed, a real laugh.

Gaius sighed and smiled at himself and waited until the youth calmed down.

"Here." Emrys reached though the iron bars again, still chuckling a little. "Hand it to me, I'll do it."

Gaius gave the roll of bandages to the outstretched hand. "Oh well."

"I think I can manage it." In the dim light, he saw his nephew begin to pick apart the bandage on his arm.

Gaius began to gather his things, packing them back into his satchel a little less neatly than he had before. "I should leave you now, before I am discovered. But-" He slowly, carefully, pathetically got to his feet, groaning. "But," He repeated. "I am to speak to the King tonight about the arrangement, if I can convince him, he will-"

"Stay my execution." Emrys finished for him, looking up from his efforts in bandaging, smiling. "Thank you, Gaius. Even if you fail-"

"I shall not-" Gaius tried to interject.

"Even if you fail." Emrys spoke over him, words strong and hard. A pause. The voice softened. "I am still in your debt for all the kindness you've given to me. Thank you."

Gaius inclined his head, looked his nephew over one more time, then picked up his bag.

"Um, Gaius, one more thing?"

He turned around.

The youth was watching him and the torchlight caught the boy's eyes just right that they looked gold, shimmering, gleaming in the darkness of his cell. "Are there dungeons below this one? Specifically, below mine?"

Gaius shook his head. "No, why?" Something like suspicion reared its head in the pit of his stomach and he tried to tamp it down.

"Oh." And Emrys was silent a moment. "Well, I must have been dreaming, since I heard someone calling my name, from below."

* * *

Morgana peered out from behind a corner, leaning, and holding her breath. There he was! She bit her lip and steeled herself, running over in her mind the plan she had concocted not long ago. All she had to do was-

"My lady, what are you doing?"

Morgana cringed and reached behind, pushing Gwen back and out of sight. "Hush!" She hissed and went back to her plan. Now-

Gwen did as she was bid, but only for a moment. "But why are you watching the prince from over here?" To Gwen's credit, though, she spoke softly and Morgana's quarry seemed not to hear.

"Gwen." Morgana looked back over her shoulder at her maid. "I asked to you stay with..." The lady looked around, no one was passing by her hiding spot in one of the many alcoves of the courtyard. "With our 'friend' in my chambers."

And Morgana turned back around to begin watching her prize again. Arthur was taking a walk around the courtyard, discussing something useless with one of the guards. Must be a captain. They certainly had been talking a while and at great length. Anyway, she needed to ambush him as soon as he was free and walking alone. Needed to grab him when no one was watching. Needed to-

Gwen placed a hand on Morgana's shoulder and squeezed gently. "With respect, my lady, I had to follow you. You had that look on your face."

"You must go back to my chambers." Morgana glanced away from her mission, back to her maid, and frowned. "What look?"

Gwen shrugged. "The one you do when your nose crinkles up and your forehead gets creases and you look like a little old man. I'm not sure what you call it."

"Purpose, Gwen." Morgana snapped. "You call it purpose."

"I call it the 'angry little man face', but whatever pleases you, my lady." A pause from Gwen. "My lady?"

"Yes?"

Arthur looked to be finishing up whatever boring business he had with that man.

"What do you intend to do?"

"Wonderfully."

Morgana strode out from her hiding spot in the shadows and struck out into the sunshine of the courtyard. She could hear Gwen's frantic whispers behind her but she ignored them. Her steps clicked over the cobblestone. Clicked faster and faster. Bridged the gap between them. Almost there. So close. Morgana saw Arthur step under the shadow of the castle and towards the kitchens, beginning to melt into that little passageway. She had to hurry. She had to-

"Arthur!" She practically jogged to him. Popped from behind a column. Grabbed his arm.

He let out a small yelp and stepped back.

"I need to speak with you." She hissed.

Arthur, with wide eyes, pressed a hand to his chest. "Thank you, Morgana, for that. Now that I've had the wits scared out of me I can properly start my day." He firmly pushed away her grip on his hand. "I think we've filled our quota of conversation for the day, don't you think?" And Arthur began to walk away again, making for the entrance to the kitchens.

Out of her reach.

"No!" Morgana grabbed his shirt, twisted it into her fist. "Arthur, I need your-"

Arthur wheeled back around, as close as he could get.

Morgana swallowed hard.

He was speaking very fast and very low. "I know what you were doing and I want no part of it. I'm already neck deep in your mess, Morgana, don't drag me any further."

"Arthur, I haven't the slighted idea of what you're talking about." She tried one of her prettier smiles.

"Hiding those Druids. Lying to me. Bringing the royal physician and and your maid into your conspiracy." He was breathing hard and fast through his nose.

He was upset, but not quite angry.

Morgana thought a moment while he stared down at her. Lord, when had he gotten so tall that he could, not only figuratively but, literally look down his straight nose at her too? She remembered a time when she was taller and she used to call all the shots in the nursery. But that was a long time ago, Morgana supposed. Long enough.

"Arthur." Morgana spoke carefully. "Would you believe me if I said that I did not know they were Druids at the time?"

"No!" He fumed, waving his hands. "And I highly doubt them being Druids changed your opinion of them at all. You would have still done the same thing. Defied the law!"

Goodness, he knew her well.

"Hush!" Morgana looked around. A servant was passing on the other side of the courtyard, but there was no way he could hear the conversation taking place here. "May I also bring up the fact that they are mere children. Are children to be executed now, hmm?" She placed her hands on her hips, hoping the guilt would cow Arthur.

He sighed. "That is a technicality you are exploiting." Arthur was silent for a moment and Morgana waited, watching her. He looked her over then continued. "Druids are people of magic. And the practice of magic breaks the highest law we have. And technically, the older one is of age. So one child." Arthur leaned in close. "And that child is safe, is he not?"

"You are speaking like you have done me a great favor." Morgana nearly laughed at him. "But all you have done is spare a boy's life and sent the other of the chopping block."

She had him. Arthur winced at her last words. She had him!

Arthur sighed and rubbed one of his eyes. "I am tired of this. I have had no sleep of late and will have none until I find the other Druid boy."

The way he stressed the word "find", Morgana knew he fully intended to mislead the investigation. But still, she had not gotten what she came for.

"See?" Morgana smiled at Arthur and took his hands in hers. They were rough and scratched her skin. "I know you want to do the right thing. Please, Arthur, I just need help bringing Mordred to his people. To get him out of the castle and out of harm's way."

Arthur bowed his head.

Morgana watched him closely. He looked like a bent sapling that carried the heavy burden of too much snow upon its thin branches.

He looked at her from beneath his brows, frowning. "You realize that I am harm's way to that boy. That you are asking harm's way to get the boy out of harm's way. There's an irony in that."

Morgana nodded. "I knew you would appreciate that."

"No." Arthur finally answered.

"Arthur-"

"Just no. We will leave it at that." And Arthur pulled out of her grasp once more and tried to escape.

Morgana saw her one chance slipping away. She had to grab him in more ways than one. She couldn't just rely on her hands anymore.

"I was hoping-" She saw him slow his steps. Inside, she beamed. Morgana continued. "I was hoping to take him out of the gate tonight, under cover of night."

Arthur turned around on the spot.

He looked so much like Uther, Morgana lamented. Where was the boy she used to play with and who was this stern shade of Uther in his place?

She kept talking, talked for all she was worth. "I was going to put a cloak on him, say I was taking him to meet his mother outside the walls. I'm going to do it tonight." She almost felt like she was threatening to do it. "I will do it."

"That's madness." Arthur crossed his arms and cocked his head. "You're really serious, aren't you?"

"I am." She nodded. "Are you going to try and stop me?"

"No." He laughed a little, shrugging.

"Why not? You said it was mad."

"Well, yes. But-"

"It is mad, isn't it?"

Arthur stammered, tripping over his words. "It is. It's madness. The guards have orders to look each person in the face as they enter or exit. And they'll see your face and question why a highborn lady is taking a peasant to his mother!" He was flustered.

Morgana closed the distance between them, speaking low and fast. Inside, she gleamed. Inside, she was shining. "They won't question the motives of a highborn lady, Arthur. I can do whatever I want. I'll say his mother is a villager of Wickstead. They'll believe anything I say."

"No, they won't, you dolt!"

Morgana ignored the insult. "Why?"

"Because!"

"Why?"

"Because villagers from Wickstead only come to Camelot in the late summer to trade when the roads are clear enough. The roads are still mush from winter and the guards know that no one will be traveling from Wickstead. They'll know you're lying." He said it all in a rush, becoming breathless. Arthur panted for a moment, clapping a hand to his forehead. "You're ridiculous. You'd have better luck sneaking out through the catacomb tunnels than the bloody front gate."

The tunnels in the catacombs.

Morgana smiled.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. They take you out past the front gate and-... Oh, no."

"So if I can just bypass the guards that usually stand around down there, throwing dice?" Morgana tapped her chin with the tip of her index finger. "Then I will have a clear way to the forest."

Arthur took Morgana by both of her shoulders, gripping hard, and leaned in. "Of course you can't do that, you fool. There's a grate at the end of the tunnel and it cannot be opened from the inside. Someone must open it from the outside. You'd just be trapped."

"So you're saying..." Morgana nodded slowly. "I will need an accomplice."

Arthur paused, staring at her straight in the eyes. He seemed to deflate a little. "I know what you're doing. It won't work."

"It already has worked. You've given everything away." Morgana grinned.

"I won't be a part of this." Arthur sighed. "And I will be posting extra guards in the catacombs tonight."

"So I will have to distract them."

"Morgana, you're talking about trained guards of Camelot. They are impenetrable."

"Hmm." Morgana thought a moment. "How would you do it?"

"No."

"Arthur?"

"No."

"I'm curious."

"You are not." Arthur snapped. And then a moment passed. "But just between you and me," He looked her over again and there was that glint in his eyes. Morgana held on to it. Her old partner in crime was back. Arthur was always so good at making plans. He continued. "Something to like a smokescreen or a sleeping draft may work...or both."

Interesting.

Morgana smiled and watched Arthur think a moment more. He looked positively angelic while brainstorming up a solution to a problem.

"Help me." Two words. She gambled a lot in those two words.

Arthur looked up at her, tearing his eyes away from his feet, which he had been staring intently at. And there was her playmate of old. The longest second in her life passed. He nodded. Two words for two words. "I will."


	5. The Fisher King

 

His hands shook quite a bit these days. It was a simply a part of the aging process. The body sagged and grew unsteady, the eyes became weak, the hearing disappeared, and the hands shook. He had seen it many times in his patients. He had almost become used to it by now. He understood how to correct for it when he needed a steady touch for suturing, or how to focus and let it pass while trying to mix up some remedy. But now…

Gaius clasped his hands together, holding tight, then releasing again. He walked as fast as his hip would allow. Clasped his hands again. Waited for the trembling to abate. It did not. He knew it wouldn't but he tried still. Walked a little faster, wincing.

The door to the King's council chamber was ahead down the corridor. Not too much farther now. His hands shook still.

"Gaius?"

He slowed and turned about.

"Gaius, could I speak with you?"

The Lady Morgana appeared from an intersecting corridor. "Lady Morgana." He nodded to her. "I'm sorry, but I'm in a hurry. Did you require another sleeping draft for tonight?" He edged away, towards the council chamber door.

"Gaius." And he saw the Lady shoot a glance at the two guards that stood on either side of the council chamber door. The Lady lowered her voice. "I need to speak with you about something, something very important. Now." And she looked over at guards again. "Alone." She whispered. "Please?"

Gaius shook his head. There was no time. The council chamber was just beyond, just within reach, if he could just get there. "My Lady, I must be going. I have-"

The Lady Morgana took his hand, his shaking hand, and gripped it. "Please. He needs your help. We- Arthur and I, we just don't know what to do. It is already past noon."

Gaius pulled his hand away, gently, and patted the lady's arm. "I am to speak to the King in a moment." And he left it at that.

"Will it work?"

He had started towards the door again but stopped. Looked back. "I'll try." And he nodded, feeling quite heavy as he did so. It was as though the rafters of Camelot were pressing down on him and he was holding up the entire castle, stones and all, upon his knobbly shoulders. "One or the other, My Lady, maybe not both." Words heavy on his tongue.

Her face hardened at those words, or so he thought, and it wasn't pleasant to look upon. His hands shook. Gaius turned about and continued on his way. A moment or so later, he heard her footsteps fading away down the corridor, in the other direction.

Finally, finally, Gaius made to the council chamber door, hands clasped together. "I have need to speak with the King."

The guard upon the right, whom Gaius had seen about the castle many times, kept his eyes straight ahead and did not lower them at all. "The King has asked not be disturbed."

"He has asked for me."

"He has not." Was the tight answer

Gaius worked his jaw. Worth a try. "I am the Royal Physician. If the King had not requested me, don't you think I would know? I am required."

"The King has asked not to be disturbed."

His hands shook, small earthquake under his flesh. "Now see here!" Gaius stepped forward. "I-"

The door to the council chamber flew open and the King stood there. Frowning. Parchements clutched in his hand and the other hand supporting his person against the inside of the doorway. "Gaius?"

Gaius took his chance, speaking before the guards could. "Sire, please! I have something to speak with you about."

"Can it wait?" The King folded the piece of parchment in his hand in half. "I am a little busy right this moment."

Gaius shook his head. "No, sire."

A moment passed. The King stared down at Gaius. Gaius stared up at him and felt sweat beading on his forehead. The moment passed and the King took a careful step back and aside, allowing Gaius to enter the council chamber. Gaius did, and the King shut the door behind him.

Back still turned, Gaius head the King speak behind him. "Make this quick, Gaius."

Gaius took a breath and steeled himself before turning about to face the king. "Sire." He began. "The druid-"

"No, Gaius!" The King stood there by the door, as straight as he could with his injured leg, and shifted a little to accommodate the pain. He should really sit down, but Gaius knew that the man wouldn't. So he braced himself to receive the censure, jaw clenched. Hands shaking.

The King continued, in a slightly lowered tone, but no less incredulous or harsh. "It is done. The death warrant has been drawn up and signed." The King held up the folded piece of parchment, one corner of it heavy and hot with the King's red wax seal. "This man has broken our laws, Camelot's laws, and he must be judged and punished accordingly. Does that not make sense to you?" He tossed the warrant on the council table and leaned on table, taking weight off of his leg. "You, of all people."

Gaius took another breath. He had to slowly pick away, to slowly and carefully worm his way to the truth of his motivation. All at once, the King would brush it off. He had to wear the King down. "Sire, you are making a mistake by executing this boy." Using the word 'boy' instead of the word 'man' would soften what Emrys was accused of. A child is slightly more forgivable in the eyes of the law, or rather, in the eyes of the King.

"And what mistake am I making this time?" The King pushed off the table and seemed to be making his way back to his high-backed chair at the head of the table. Careful slow steps.

Gaius watched the slow progress of the King, never taking his eyes off him. "You will be earning the enmity of the Druids." Watching for any changes, a chink in the armor, a moment where his mind is slightly swayed.

"What do I care- hmm." The King lowered himself into his chair, groaning a little as he did so. "...of their feelings?"

Gaius took a few more steps forward, approaching the table, and stopping just at the far end, his hands gripping the wooden edge. "Sire, surely nothing can be gained by making certain they are our enemies." The table was between them, a solid immovable object, Gaius reflected.

"They are our enemies whether I execute this man or not." A pause while the King adjusted himself in his chair, grimacing. "They persistently and maliciously use magic to create chaos in my kingdom. Why would I want them as allies?"

"Most of them are healers that merely use knowledge to help others, not magic. They are a peaceful people. Nomadic too, they rarely stay in one place."

"Ha!" The King laughed, short, more like a bark. And shook his head.. "Have you and Arthur been speaking?"

"What?" Gaius did not quite understand.

A shrug. "He said something similar, in so many words." Fingers drummed on the table. Prepared to stand. Hands flat on the table and leaning forward. Bracing to stand. "If that's all you have to say-"

Gaius took a few steps around the table, walking along its side, closer and closer to the King. "And what of it? What Arthur and I have said? And the druid himself? He spoke as though he had some influence over the druids, as though he could command them and they would obey.

The King sat back down, eased into the high-backed chair. "You would have me believe the word of a traitor?

Gaius stopped about halfway down the table, making sure to keep looking directly at the King. "Traitor is a strong word." Maintaining eye contact was important. Gaius could feel his heart pounding in his brittle chest.

The King shrugged. "It is the correct one."

An opportunity. Gaius started approaching the King in his chair again, slow and careful. "For a boy who came into the city to collect supplies, was attacked, and defended himself. And now offers you a way to rid yourself of the druids indefinitely. In exchange for his life."

The King pointed to the door. "Every second he spends in that dungeon, he is a danger to the Kingdom, and us. He could break out any time he pleased and murder us all."

The arguments seemed evenly matched and Gaius swallowed hard before he answered, letting the pitch of his voice crack a little. He could not fail in this! "Then why hasn't he? You put him in there this morning and it is already the afternoon. Half a day, to break out!" Just a pace or two separated Gaius from the King.

The King rolled his eyes and had to look up at Gaius now to speak with him. "How am I to anticipate the actions of a sorcerer?"

Gaius tried again. "Spare the boy's life."

"Why should I spare his life when he will in turn use that opportunity to bring ruin on my kingdom?"

"I know he will not." He shook his head. He thought back to that conversation with the Druid in the dungeons. The boy had seemed kind. And careful. Surely, he wouldn't-

"You have spoken with him." The King breathed, almost laughing, but he stared at Gaius with wide eyes and an unnatural paleness.

"Sire-" Gaius took a step back.

"You have been in the dungeons."

"No, I-"

"And now you are lying! You have spoken with him. He has cast a spell on you. Guards!" At the end of the hall, the door banged against the wall. Heavy steps. Armor clinking. The King was still speaking, half-shout, half-drawl. "I knew when I saw that bandage about his arm that it was your handiwork. Tied the same way you fasten mine. Guards, here! Hold him."

Gaius kept his back to the approaching guards. He did not dare turn around. When they took him by the arms, gripping hard, Gaius could already feel the rising bruises from their heavy gloves. He was held fast to the spot. The King was trying to rise from his chair, grimacing with the effort. A brief moment of silence.

Gaius took his chance. He had to. "He's my nephew."

The King shook his head. "He has deceived you." And he finally succeeded in standing, one hand on the table, steadying his person.

"He has not." Gaius felt his voice shake, matching his shaking hands. "I know it for certain. He is my sister's son." Gaius did not just know it. He felt it. He felt it when he looked in the boy's eyes and saw the eyes of his little sister there. Hunith. He had to keep the boy alive for Hunith.

"Gaius, he may be your flesh and blood, but he is no more your kin. He chose to join the druids and to practice magic."

"He did not. Sire, he was taken at a young age and forced into the druids' way of life. He did not have a choice." He didn't bother struggling against the guards. His voice was his only defense here.

There was a pause. Gaius could hear the blood pumping in his ears, watching the King closely. Finally, he spoke. "Gaius, you have put me in an uncomfortable position." The King turned his back to Gaius and the guards that held him, taking a few steps away, hands clasped behind his back.

"Being King is not a position of comfort, ….Sire."

A brief look over the King's shoulder, a deep frown. "Thank you for that reminder."

Gaius had gone over these arguments for the past few hours after speaking with his nephew in the dungeons. He had recited them a hundred or so times in his head. And still, his voice shook when he spoke and his clean, logical arguments spilled from his lips in tangles like knotted yarn. Haphazard and swaying. He called out to the King. "What if this was your son? What if this was Arthur?"

The King turned in an instant. "You compare that filth to my son?" Despite the King's limp, he looked dangerous, eyes dark, lips a thin line, as he strode back to the physician.

Gaius almost panicked, his desire to flee increased. Would he be murdered here? He had to walk that fine line every day between sage counsel and treasonous insolence. Maybe this was the day that the King decided that he was a traitor too. But Gaius kept speaking. "If your son had been taken, if his choices were taken from him, would not you try to do the same? Would not you try to save him... from himself?"

The King sighed, remained silent. Gaius swooped in for another strike. A deeper one. A more painful one. "There is another reason, one that may benefit you, to keep this boy alive and only imprisoned. Not only would the Druids leave Camelot-"

"-So he says-" The King spoke over him.

Gaius kept talking. "-and not only would my sister and I be reunited with my nephew, but the boy may be able to solve a problem for you, one that had plagued you for many years now. Sire, the Druids are known for their deep knowledge of healing and other medicinal arts. He may be able to heal your injury, permanently."

A long pause. Silence, deafening. And then, the King spoke.

"Guards, leave us."

* * *

The door closed behind the two guards and the council room fell silent. The King still stood, despite the pain. He watched the physician before him, the old man was shaking.

"Sire." Gaius broke the stillness of the chamber.

The King held up his hand. "Quiet! I would have you be quiet. If that is ever possible?"

The old man closed his mouth and the King watched his eyes slide to rest upon the stone floor. Good. The King let it all settle. He could almost hear dust motes settling on the stones. One by one. He breathed in. The crushing ache in his leg reigned over all.

"Gaius, you cannot expect me to believe such a blatant lie." The old man before him opened his mouth again to argue or protest or whine and King Uther held up his hand. "Let me speak, damn you! This wound has resisted any sort of treatment for nigh on twenty years. All that can be done is to bind it every day and endure the pain. No herbs or tinctures will lessen its sting. No balm will encourage it to heal. No medicine will fix this. This wound was magic-made!" Almost in response to his strong words, the wound in his thigh began to throb a little more.

"Magic may unmake it, Sire." Gaius's voice quivered.  
The King rolled his eyes. Somehow, the physician had managed to slip in a few words. "I understand the logic, Gaius, but I cannot begin to allow that. Why would I let a sorcerer, a druid, even near my person?"

"I believe, Sire, that he can help you, an- and that he wants to."

"Really?" That was highly unlikely.

"He has remembered his past now, he seeks redemption for his years among the druids. Can you not grant that to him?"

"No!" The King spat.

His physician seemed on the edge of sanity. He was still not sure that the Druid had not simply cast a spell on the old man to convince the King to spare his life. He could not be sure that it was not the Druid speaking through his old servant now. Still… The King put a hand to his throbbing thigh and knew it would be better if he sat down. If the wound was not there, he could run, he could go riding, he could walk unaided. If the wound was not there, he would not be the "Wounded King".

It was a pretty thought.

A rough plan began to form in his thoughts. He would need to make the appropriate arrangements.

"I cannot grant him any sort of redemption." The King spoke slowly. "His crimes are unforgivable. But if he is…" He searched for the right word. "Useful. Then he may be granted a stay of execution."

Gaius gasped, took a step forward.

King Uther held up his hand once more. "Quiet! He will be given a test of sorts. If he should fail or cause any sort of harm-"

"He won't!"  
"He will be put to death immediately. No negotiations. And you," King Uther put a hand out to steady himself on the back of one of his council chairs, using the other to point at his physician. His wound flared. He winced but tried to hide it, staring straight into Gaius's eyes. "You will face the consequences, my friend."

The old man nodded with his mouth tight and thin.

"He is your nephew, Gaius."

"I know."

"I only hope that he has not inherited your impertinence and your quick tongue, they are a dangerous combination." He closed his eyes and worked his jaw a little, trying to distract himself.

"As do I, Sire."

"Leave me. I'll call you at sundown."

"Yes, sire."

King Uther heard the door thump closed. He cleared his throat and sniffed, opening his eyes again to look down at his thigh. He wore trousers, but just beneath was a tightly wound bandage. He touched it, that roughness beneath fine cloth. "Twenty years…" He heard himself murmur.

There could be an end to it. An end to the pain and an end to this weakness. A face, a laughing face floated before his eyes, unbidden, mocking. The King opened and closed his eyes, trying to blink the tormentor away. An end to her hold on his body. Finally, after twenty years, her contamination would be wiped from his flesh. Finally, he would be rid of her. Hadn't he suffered enough?


	6. In Moderation

 

* * *

"George?" Arthur set down his quill pen and blew gently on the wet ink.

"Yes, sire?" The boy looked up from the other side of the room, arms full of dirty clothes.

Arthur rolled up the parchment into a small tube and tied it with a piece of twine. "I have something for you to deliver. It cannot wait." Arthur glanced out of the window. The sun had risen high enough that he could no longer see it. It was noon. And soon, it would be afternoon. They would have to work quickly.

The manservant walked over. "Where should it be delivered, sire?"

Arthur thought back to the directions that Morgana had given to him, the directions that had previously been given to her by a Druid child. After poring over a map for a few minutes, he had roughly understood where the Druid camp was currently.

Arthur pushed his map a little closer to George's side of the desk. He pointed to a spot, not too deep in the forest. Maybe a mile as the crow flies. But it would be two as George rode. Hence the haste.

"The King wants to send word to some of his subjects in the forest. You are to deliver this to them and return immediately." He pressed the parchment into George's hand. "Take my horse. She's faster."

"Sire-" George began.

He held up his hand. "You have my permission, tell the stablehands that." Arthur stood from his desk and waved George toward the door. "And I will be very busy for the rest of the day, George. I have some important papers to attend to. Therefore, my door will be closed and it will remain that way until morning, understood? I do not wish to be disturbed."

George silently nodded and went on his way. The door thumped closed behind him. A solid sound.

Good lad. Arthur sat back down in his chair, sighing.

At dawn he had discovered the Druids. By mid-morning the older boy had been sentenced to death. And then Morgana had roped him into smuggling the younger Druid boy out of Camelot. It was now just about noon. Time to prepare. Arthur got up from his chair.

Arthur grabbed a dull cloak made of cheap material. He picked up a pack and slung it over his shoulder, opened the door to his chamber, and slipped outside. The corridor was relatively empty. A servant here or there, but no one of consequence. Good.

Back straight and looking off into the middle distance, not meeting anyone's eyes, Arthur made his way outside and down to the stables. His horse was gone. That meant George was able to convince the stablehands let him take it. After this little excursion, he would have a talk with the horse-master and make sure it wouldn't be that easy again. It was only convenient this time. He really didn't want his horse stolen on a regular basis.

One of the stableboys asked if he needed help. He was young and small, no older than ten winters. Arthur waved him off silently.

He and the younger Druid boy were just about the same age. A boy that young shouldn't be executed. He agreed with Morgana and it hurt him to do so. His father had trusted him to uphold the laws of this land.

Arthur finished saddling one of the common horses they had set aside for servants, tightening the straps as quickly as he could. Before leaving the stables, however, he put on the dull cloak and drew the hood over his face. He didn't meet anyone else as he led the horse toward the gateway that led outside the castle walls.

With luck, Arthur thought as he approached the two guards that stood at the gateway, they will think I am only a servant on an errand.

His luck held, they neither stopped him nor acknowledged him, simply letting him pass on through.

Arthur circled the castle walls slowly with his horse, a bay nag named Godiva. She had a sweet disposition, Arthur found, as she politely followed his every step.

"We shall rest here, Godiva." Arthur murmured to the horse as they came upon a large metal grate set into the castle wall. It was square, and about the height of a man. Behind the grate lay a dark corridor. The burial vaults. Morgana would come out here.

Arthur let Godiva graze on the nearby grass while he sat, back against the castle wall, and keeping note of the sun's position in the sky.

It was up to Morgana now.

About two hours had passed, judging by the position of the sun in the sky, when Arthur heard faint footsteps coming from the long corridors of the burial vaults. Arthur jumped to his feet and stood near to the edge of the grate. If it was a guard, he didn't want to be seen.

Two figures came around a corner, one tall, and one very short. Arthur relaxed and stepped out in front of the grate.

"Arthur." Morgana whispered, coming close enough to the grate that daylight fell on her face. "Everything go as planned?"

"Yes." Arthur stepped back, grabbed some rope from the pack he carried, and began tying it to the bars of the grate. "You?"

"I think so." She sighed.

Arthur noticed that she held tightly to the Druid boy's hand. And the boy himself was watching Arthur's every move.

We can't save both, Arthur reminded himself.

He fixed the ropes to his horse, then angled the horse so that she faced away from the grate.

"Stand back." Arthur nodded at Morgana.

The lady stepped back from the grate, pulling the boy with her.

"Right then, Godiva." Arthur put a hand to the horse's rump. "Here is where you earn your keep." And he smacked Godiva's rump, hard.

The horse started forward, halted, stopped by the grate, then pulled through it. The grate came away from the wall, clanging, wrenching and tearing. Arthur stopped Godiva by grabbing the reins and ran a hand down her neck, calming her. "Sorry about that." Arthur began to untie the horse.

Morgana and the boy stepped from the burial vaults, squinting in the sunlight. She came up beside Arthur. "So, where's my horse?"

Arthur didn't look up. "You aren't coming."

"What?!"

Arthur started. "Keep your voice down." He hissed. "It's much too dangerous. People will notice if we are both gone."

"So we made a plan earlier, but you just decided to make your own afterwards." Morgana threw up her hands, huffing. "Very mature of you, Arthur."

"I'm just trying to make this work."

"It would've worked if you hadn't changed it!"

Arthur shook his head. Godiva was finally free of the ropes. "We must go." He held out a hand to the Druid boy. "Now."

The child looked up at him, wide-eyed, mouth agape. He reached out a small hand.

Morgana snatched the boy's hand away. "We're going together. Or I'm going and you can stay here."

Arthur laughed, running a hand through his hair. Why did he think he could convince her to stay behind? What should he do? And besides, Godiva couldn't carry all three of them.

He met Morgana's eyes. She was staring at him, her mouth a thin line and brow furrowed. He nodded. "Alright," He pointed to the treeline. "You go first with the boy on Godiva. I'll follow in a few minutes at a jog. You must stop after you get under the trees. But stay hidden and," Arthur grunted as he lifted the Druid boy into the saddle. "I will meet you there. Understand."

"Completely." Morgana swung herself up onto Godiva's back effortlessly, despite her skirts.

Voices behind him.

Arthur whirled around. Down the corridor of the burial vaults, he could hear voices, men's voices. Guards!

"Down here!" A voice echoed. "Someone's been here!"

Arthur met Morgana's wide eyes.

"Go, go!" He slapped the horse's rump as they started off at a trot. The boy looked back at him. Arthur tried to smile a little. This would not go well.

"Come quickly!" Someone yelled.  
Arthur snatched his pack from the ground and pulled his cloak about him. He tore off after the horse and its riders as fast as he could. Would they be fast enough

* * *

Gaius's joints creaked as he tried to keep up with the guards. He huffed and puffed and willed his body to move faster. Still, the heavy boots of the guards that walked behind him still trod on his robes every so often. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, quickly chilled as they passed the threshold to the dungeons and the air rapidly became stale, damp, and cool.

They descended.

Finally, they came to the last cell.

Torches hissed and popped. The clank of the key in a lock. Gaius pressed his lips together. But no one entered the cell to help the boy to his feet. A moment passed. The Druid looked up and looked into Gaius's eyes.

The old physician sighed and stepped forward, into the cell, and offered his nephew a hand. Merlin, now Emrys, took it and seemed to smile as he slowly got to his feet. Or was it a grimace. Gaius gently patted the boy's shoulder. "How's your wound?"

Emrys nodded a little. "Better, I think."

"Come on!" The head gaoler snapped. "Haven't got all day!"

Emrys tried to walk, but his legs shook too much and his knees simply gave out. Gaius only just managed to catch the boy before he could hit the hard stone floor.

"H-he cannot walk on his own, he must be carried." Gaius looked to the gaoler.

"If he cannot walk, he will be dragged." The man replied.

Gaius felt himself blanche a little, then wrapped one of the boy's arms about his shoulders. "I will carry him." He murmured.

"Hurry up then!"

Gaius maneuvered the Druid out of the cell and they walked in front of the small army of guards that had been summoned to escort the Druid to the throne room. It was slow going. He could hear the boy's ragged panting in his ear. He needed rest and a warm bed, not this. Anything but this.

"So," Emrys muttered softly. "How did the King come by his… affliction?"

Gaius licked his lips, keeping his voice low. "A powerful sorceress gave it to him, ten years ago."

"Mmm." Emrys nodded a little. "She must have been quite angry."

"I suppose." Gaius tried to picture her, but he could barely remember her face anymore. "He betrayed her."

"Seems an appropriate response." Emrys's laugh was wheezy.

Gaius somehow found himself smiling a little. "Do you…" He swallowed. "Do you think you will be able to heal the wound?"

A pause.

The throne room was in sight now, drawing closer and closer with each faltering step they took.

Gaius looked at his nephew. The boy's gaze was straight ahead, fixed on the doors of the throne room. "Merlin?" Gaius asked, then stopped himself, cursing inwardly. "I mean, I am sorry. Emrys, can you do it?"

"You can call me 'Merlin' if you like." Emrys met Gaius's eyes. "I miss that name sometimes."

"Can you heal the wound?"

Emrys shook his head. "Not this one."

Gaius felt all the blood drain from his face. The doors to the throne room were opened before them. He gripped his nephew's hand harder.

"Besides," Emrys continued. "I'm rubbish at healing anyway."

The King sat upon his throne at the other end of the room, an executioner standing to the right and a small figure to his left. The golden afternoon light stretched out to brush the King's feet, flowing in shafts and humming with dust motes.

Gaius squinted. The small figure to the left of the King looked to be a child, clothed in a dull green cloak, the hood pulled up and obscuring the face. The child was shaking.

Something tickled the back of Gaius's mind. "Is that…" His words trailed. The more he stared at the child, the more he knew.

He felt his nephew stagger and stop, frozen to the spot.

Emrys had spotted the child too and breathed one word. "Mordred."


End file.
